La Belle et la Bête
by vanderspektacular
Summary: They've got nothing in common: he's a pampered prince and she's a kitchen maid with a past. Will they ultimately find love in each other? A less literal twist on Beauty and the Beast, please R&R!
1. The Count's Daughter

Chapter One: The Count's Daughter

Once upon a time, in a cottage in the middle of the woods, a baby girl was born to a count and his wife. The couple had been out riding when the countess fell off her horse. They rushed into the little house, the only sign of civilization for miles around, in an effort to save both lives. The baby was delivered safely, but her mother did not survive. The count was so grief-stricken he could not bear to see the child who had been the cause of his beloved wife's death. He forced her upon the owners of the cottage, an older couple with no children, who raised the child as their own. And that is how my name came to be Cécile Adélaïde Pierpont instead of Cécile Adélaïde Levesque, as it ought to have been.

The Pierponts were not wealthy, but they were kind and loving. Georges, whom I still call Papa, even though I now know better, was a woodcutter, and his wife Virginie kept house, prepared food, and looked after me. I had no other little girls to play with, as we lived in the middle of the forest, so my friends were the frogs, the birds, Papa's dog-eared, tatty books and most of all, my chestnut-colored horse Félix, whom I was barely old enough to ride without Papa but who was mine all the same.

When I was nearing eight, Papa and Maman decided that it could not be healthy for a child to be so secluded, and we moved to the city. Papa got a job in the royal palace, as a butler, and Maman was quickly hired as a cook there as well. We tearfully sold Félix, packed up our few possessions, and moved into the servants' quarters of the palace.

The change was drastic. I missed the woods and hated the bustle of town. Everything was too noisy and smelly. The other servants' children laughed at me for my wild nature and I had even fewer friends than before. I was constantly unhappy and cried myself to sleep for weeks, longing for the cottage. One day when we had been at the palace about two weeks, I ran away to the gardens and sat there reading for hours, pretending I was home again in my forest.

"What are you doing?" a boy said.

I jumped. "You frightened me," I replied, standing up quickly. The boy before me was about my age, and had dirty blond hair and carried a hoe.

"Sorry," he said. He examined me for a moment. I dusted off my dress, knowing I must look to him like a wild creature. "I'm Alain, who are you?"

"Cécile," I replied.

"Oh. All right. Did you know you've got grass in your hair?"

"Yes," I said stubbornly, as I blushingly plucked out a piece from my straight, mouse-brown hair.

He turned around and left.

Alain and his older sister, Sophie, became my friends. Alain was a very straightforward person, as our first meeting betrayed. Sophie was a bossy girl of nine-and-three-quarters who had all the answers. She was probably friends with an outcast like me because no one else would stand her. And Alain followed wherever his sister led. Sophie worked in the kitchen and when Maman discovered we were friends, she insisted I work in the kitchen as well.

At home, I hadn't minded cooking. There had been only three mouths to feed; vegetables, bread, and a little meat had held us just fine. But at the palace there was much to learn. I had to learn to make desserts and fine tea and carry food without spilling it. It was tedious, boring work, and I hated being stuck in the hot kitchen when the weather was lovely. And even worse than being scolded for daydreaming was listening to Sophie drone on and on about the queen's gowns or the extensive royal silver collection.

To my surprise, we saw little of the royal family themselves--the king, the queen, and their only son--though we worked in their home. The queen was often confined to her room due to her poor health, and I saw King Henri only when he was coming or going in his carriage. Once in a while, however, the prince made his presence quite known. He was two or three years older than I was, and had a terrible temper because he had been spoiled his whole life. When having one of his tantrums he could be heard screaming from anywhere in the palace, and probably outside as well.

"You'd think the brat was being _forced_ to live in this horrible place," the maids would say sarcastically, taking a silver tray out the swinging kitchen door.

"At nine years old, it's past time they started telling him to act like a man instead of a baby," his tutors would grumble as they left the palace, never to return again.

I remember the very first time I saw him, only a few weeks after we'd come to live at the palace.

"Who are you?" he said gruffly from the staircase. "I haven't seen you around here before."

I turned around. "Me? I'm Cécile." I surveyed him. He was an ugly boy, with dark hair, a face pinched from years of frowning, and sallow skin, though he was dressed in the finest clothes I'd seen. "Who are you?"

"How dare you?" he demanded. "You don't know that I am Prince Étienne?"

"I beg your pardon, your highness," I said quietly with a curtsy. "I didn't know."

"Well, now you do know," he said in a commanding tone, turning around and stomping up the stairs.

"Please excuse me, your highness," I said, and left the room to find my friends.

When I asked her about him, Sophie explained, "He's always been that way. He's just a very unpleasant boy, and there's nothing his parents or any of his nurses or governesses or tutors have ever been able to do about it. They've even brought in doctors and apothecaries and witches. But nothing helps."

"They have not brought in witches," Alain said.

"Have too, I've seen them," Sophie snapped in her know-it-all way.

"You're lying," Alain said, "there's not even such thing as a witch!"

"There is too!"

"_I _think," I interrupted, "that he's just lonely."

The pair stared at me for a second, Alain looking unconvinced and Sophie looking like she was thinking, "_Mon dieu_, Cécile, you are without doubt the most idiotic person ever to walk the earth."

"Maybe he needs a friend?" I ventured.

"Maybe," Sophie replied with a smirk, "but it won't be me."

Alain shrugged. "I don't think I would get lonely with such a fine horse as his," he said.

I sighed inwardly. Alain was kind, and it was certainly nice to have a friend, but he was so…simple. He was a year older than I was, but to me it seemed as though he acted a year younger, or more. He was content to spend his days in the gardens, helping his father, and playing with Sophie, not questioning or wondering, while I was constantly bored by the monotonous life at the palace. For awhile my books and my thoughts were my only escape. I missed home, the forest, Félix. Perhaps Félix the most. After Maman let me go from the kitchens one day I snuck over to the royal stables.

The stables were magnificent. Beautiful horses of every breed and color filled aisles of stalls. They all had wonderful names, like Auberon and Atalante and Ludovic and ones I didn't even know how to pronounce.

"Well, hello there," a huge man said, coming up next to me. "How do you like the horses?"

I must have looked frightened, because he smiled in an amused way. "They're beautiful, sir," I said quickly, craning my neck to look up at him. He was the tallest man I had ever seen.

He reached his hand in Ludovic's stall and patted him. "They are," he agreed. "Are you a horse-lover, miss?"

"Yes, I think they're some of the best things in the world," I replied shyly.

"Glad to know you then, little one. The name's Germain," he said, offering me a huge calloused hand. "I train the horses here. And I'm the farrier as well."

I took it, biting my lip. "I'm Cécile."

"Cécile, you say? Do you know that you share your name with my little sister?"

"Really, sir?" I said, still slightly scared of him. Somehow I could not imagine such an enormous man having a little sister.

"Yes," he smiled. "Tell me, Cécile, have you ridden a horse before?"

"Oh, yes," I replied. "I used to have one. His name was Félix. But we had to sell him when we moved here."

"I am sorry," Germain said, looking sincere. "The loss of any horse is a terrible thing indeed."

I nodded, a lump forming in my throat at the thought of my beloved horse.

Germain led Ludovic into the aisle and brought his tools.

"May I watch you?" I asked him tentatively.

"Certainly," he replied in a smiling voice. "Ludovic threw a shoe this morning, and I have to replace it." Ludovic snorted as if to verify this fact. "Would you mind distracting him so that I can put the new one on more easily?"

"Oh, I'd love to," I said, stroking his shiny copper coat. I had missed horses terribly. Ludovic nudged me playfully with his nose and I smiled. Horses had a way of making me feel better, no matter what. "_Quel ange!_ You're just a big sweetheart, aren't you, Ludovic?"

Germain gave a quiet laugh. "You've discovered his secret."


	2. The Gypsy Camp

Chapter Two: The Gypsy Camp

"Cécile!" Sophie yelled. "Cécile! Are you coming, or aren't you?"

"Just a moment!" I called back. I shut my book and snatched my cap from the hook near the door, hearing Alain say, "Don't be rude, Sophie."

"_There_ you are, Cécile, you've been _ages_," Sophie said. "What in heaven's name were you _doing_?"

"I have not been _ages_," I snapped. "And I was reading."

"Reading, reading, always reading," Sophie sighed. "How do you ever expect to find a husband if you've always got your nose in a book?" Now that she was sixteen Sophie was very interested in marriage.

"I'm only fourteen, Sophie," I reminded her.

"Can we go now?" Alain said, his face slightly pink with what I could only assume was frustration at his sister's unnecessary arguments.

"Yes, let's go," Sophie said snobbishly, as if I had kept her waiting for hours.

The gypsies came only once every few years. I'd only seen them three times. I was excited. We all were. Half the village would probably be there, too, as the gypsies were as popular as the fair.

The walk seemed ages, but it was worth it when we finally arrived. Their camp was huge, and full of strange and exotic sights, sounds, and smells. They had set up dozens of small huts hung with brightly-colored cloth and beads. The women sat out front on blankets, selling jewelry, fabrics, and trinkets, while the men were gathered around a large fire, cheerfully cooking their sweet-smelling dinner and breaking out into song every now and then. Sophie and I walked arm in arm, with Alain next to me. I knew Sophie was trying to look very pretty for all the young men there; she kept laughing sweetly at whatever Alain and I said and batting her eyelashes. She didn't really need to, though, because her blond hair, pretty face, and attractive figure did the work for her. Especially when she stood next to someone like me—I had neat features, but my plain brown hair and lanky, disproportionate body kept me from looking anything near pretty.

"Oh, look at this beautiful cloth," Sophie said, holding a measure of floaty pink material. "Isn't it just lovely? Don't you wish you could live in this all the time?"

I shot Alain a look of annoyance but he didn't catch it. Sophie did, though.

"Though of course you're to immature to understand," she said, her smile turning syrupy and fake. She normally would have just yelled at me, but as she was in public and trying to impress everyone around her, she spoke to me with quiet disdain instead.

She stalked on to another blanket, where three young girls were selling dainty gold necklaces.

"That _is_ lovely," I said softly, picking one up.

"Mustn't touch, Cécile," Sophie said in her new cruelly kind voice, taking it from my hands, "_children_ are not to handle such precious things." She put it around her own neck and looked at herself in the mirror the gypsy girls had hung.

"How much for this _divine_ pendant?" she asked them, drawing out the word "divine" as she studied herself in the mirror.

The girls looked at each other cluelessly.

"How much?" she said more slowly and loudly, taking off the necklace and holding it up.

"_Trois_," the oldest girl said in foreign-accented French.

"Three? This worthless piece of junk isn't worth half that! " Sophie said, tossing the necklace aside. She swept haughtily away from the blanket but stopped only a few yards over, in front of a fortune teller's hut.

"Ooh!" Sophie squealed delightedly. "Let's go in here!"

Alain and I shrugged at each other, following her in.

A wrinkled old woman sat on a blanket covered in bowls and bottles of powders. A few candles were lit, but otherwise the hut was dark and mysterious. The woman looked up and gave us a toothless grin. "Sit."

Sophie sat down excitedly and the woman seemed to smirk amusedly at her. She held out her hands, and Sophie laid her own on top of them. I smiled inwardly at her enthusiasm.

The old woman stared down at it. "You are lovely, but you long for love," the woman said after a moment, looking at Sophie pointedly. "You will find it often, and readily. That is your blessing and also your curse." The woman closed her eyes and made seemed to weigh Sophie's hands against each other. "You will always be near home."

Sophie looked at her expectantly and the woman said, "That is all I can see."

"Surely there's more?" Sophie asked incredulously.

The woman closed her eyes and shook her head.

Sophie stood up angrily. "Well!"

I laughed aloud.

"What are you laughing at?" she said challengingly.

"Nothing," I replied innocently, leaving the hut.

"Wait," the old woman said. We stuck our heads back in and she stared at me. Her eyes were an unnaturally bright shade of blue that I hadn't noticed before. "You," she said quietly. "Come here."

I was too surprised to react for a moment.

"Go on," Alain said, pushing me slightly.

I sat down in front of her.

"A lock of your hair," she said, holding a pair of rusty scissors.

I took off my cap and held out a strand of plain brown hair, and she snipped it off easily.

She took a bowl from either side of her and poured their contents into a larger one, sprinkling in my hair as well. She murmured something and waved her hands over it.

Sophie snorted. "_Please_," she said condescendingly, though when I glanced at her, her pretty features betrayed her jealousy.

Suddenly the woman looked up at me, her eyes locking with mine. "You seek adventure and passion. And you shall find them both. Your future holds much. Change. Knowledge. Great beauty. Love. Passion. But also pain. Suffering."

Adventure, passion, beauty, love—I could have sung! Those _were _all the things I'd been longing for. As for pain, a little pain was always necessary to find true happiness, wasn't it?

"You will learn much about yourself," she went on. "For you are not who you think you are."

I wanted to ask her what she meant but my brain and my tongue didn't seem to be connected.

"Don't settle for less than what you truly desire," she said, looking at me intently.

I nodded, still slightly alarmed by her electric blue eyes.

"She was lying to you, Cécile," Sophie said with a horrible grin once we'd left the hut. "The old hag told you all that because she saw that you were in such superior company, and thought you must be feeling awful about yourself." She fluffed her blond hair self-importantly.

"Ha, ha," I said sarcastically. "Or maybe she just knows that looks won't get you anywhere if your head is completely empty."

Sophie's face turned red and her jaw jutted out.

"Come on, Cécile," Alain said quickly, "let's go take a look at those Arabians over there."

"Heavens, Cécile, you're such a tomboy," Sophie said derisively. "Always with the horses. It's a miracle you haven't started wearing breeches."

I thought it wise not to tell her about the pair I'd borrowed from Alain at that particular moment. It wasn't my fault, though; how was I supposed to ride properly in a skirt? And no one ever saw me. I merely said, "Sophie, you go look at the pretty necklaces again and we'll find you in a few minutes."

Sophie rolled her eyes again, giving up. "Fine."

"I hope we can find her again," Alain said once we'd left her.

"I'm sure it won't be terribly difficult," I replied as we reached the horses, "as she is drawn to pink fabric like a moth to the candlelight."

Alain didn't laugh at my joke. I sighed. Some of my best ones were wasted on Alain. He wasn't stupid. Just serious. And so dull sometimes. I had better conversations with myself than I did with Alain. Although, for all his solemnity, Alain was also kind and fiercely loyal. You could always trust him. Which was why I wasn't surprised he hadn't told Sophie about my early morning rides on old Anatole, a chestnut gelding who wasn't of much use to anyone-except me.

"Why didn't you want your fortune told?" I asked Alain.

He reddened slightly. "Oh, I don't believe in all that nonsense," he said vaguely, changing the subject by directing my attention to the horses we'd just reached.

"Look at this filly," I cooed over a gorgeous bay in front of me.

"Aren't you pretty," Alain said softly to a grey mare in front of him. She gave a whinny and tossed her head as if aware of her beauty.

"And humble, too," I smiled, patting her. The horses were beautiful. I was somewhat surprised at their being owned by mere gypsies, but I finally decided that it was fitting for them to move around with untamed, natural people. It seemed the closest thing to a herd of wild horses.

Suddenly I had to stop and stare. A gorgeous stallion of the darkest, purest black a few yards before me. His mane was full of knots and he looked completely wild. I looked him in the eye and he snorted. We stared at each other for a few minutes before I put my hand out cautiously. He snapped at it, his eyes suddenly filled with fire.

"Cécile!" Alain said, pulling me back.

"Alain, let go of me," I whispered, not breaking eye contact with the stallion.

"Do you like my horse?" a man said menacingly behind us.

Alain and I turned around quickly to see a great bearded gypsy smirking at us.

"Yes, sir," Alain said, for I think I had temporarily lost the capacity for speech, "he's magnificent."

"My name is Petulengro," he said. "And I do not tolerate strangers around my horse."

"We're sorry sir, we'll go," Alain said.

Petulengro's black eyes met mine. "Yes, I think that would be wise," he said quietly, still smiling.

Alain pulled me away and said, "We'd best go find Sophie."

I looked back and saw Petulengro slap the horse and yell at it. The stallion bucked and gave a loud neigh, galloping away like the wind. The gypsy bellowed something that Alain and I both understood, even though it wasn't in French.

"Fine," I said crossly to Alain.

"Where could Sophie be?" Alain said a few minutes later, once we had scoped out every blanket.

"I don't know, let's ask someone," I advised. We asked everyone we saw: the other servants who were there, the villagers, and even some of the gypsies, if they had seen Sophie, but no one had.

"Cécile, _je m'inquiète_," Alain said, though he needn't have told me he was worried. We'd been looking for her for nearly half an hour and it was getting dark. I could not only hear the anxiety in his voice but see it in his mannerisms—he kept biting his lip nervously and his eyes were darting around everywhere.

Suddenly I heard a familiar laugh. I glanced at Alain. He had heard it as well. It was the laugh Sophie used to impress people. It usually made me roll my eyes but I was overjoyed to hear it at that moment. We looked around, weaving through the nearby huts until we saw her.

She was standing by a lantern, behind one of the huts, with a handsome gypsy boy of about her own age, who was looking at her with a kind of ravenous affection that she was clearly enjoying. They were standing very close to each other, and I felt my cheeks heat up at the sight of them.

"Sophie, there you are!" Alain said loudly. "We've been looking all over for you."

"Oh, hello, Alain," she said coolly, "hello, Cécile."

We glanced at the gypsy, who was looking uncomfortable.

Sophie followed our eyes. "Oh," she added, as though she'd forgotten. "This is Emilian. Emilian, this is my brother and his friend." I noticed she didn't say "our friend" and was slightly hurt.

The boy nodded at us, looking down and running a hand through his curly black hair.

Alain frowned slightly. "Come on, Sophie, we're going now."

"Don't be silly, Alain," Sophie said dismissively, "I'm in the middle of a conversation."

"You should probably go with your brother," Emilian said with an accent. "I'm sure I will meet you again."

"Oh, Germain, I saw the most wonderful horse today at the gypsy camp," I said once we were back at the palace, and I had found him in the stables.

"Did you?" he said, just finishing putting a shoe on a lovely chestnut mare called Titania. "What did he look like?"

"He was black like night--no, like coal--no, blacker, more like…well I'm not sure, but I've never seen anything so dark," I said excitedly, talking a mile a minute. "He was so elegant and regal, but his mane was full of knots and he looked absolutely wild, too. But it wasn't only how he looked, it was how he acted, he was fiery and powerful and frightening and-and oh, Germain, I'd give anything to have him for my own." I had to stop for breath.

Germain chuckled, pushing his grey-streaked hair away from his face. "I see you've truly fallen in love with a horse for the first time."

I grinned. "Oh, if you had only been there, Germain! You'd have seen, he was magnificent."

"I don't doubt it. But he's a gypsy horse, he's far too wild for you," Germain said, standing up and patting Titania affectionately.

"I'd train him," I said quickly. "I know it would be difficult, but I could do it."

He raised an eyebrow at me.

"Don't look at me that way, I've helped you train the yearlings since I was nine! And remember Marceline? She was spirited, too, I helped with her more than all the stable boys put together!"

"That is true. But you'd turn a magnificent charger like that into a mere pet?" Germain teased, looking down at me.

I frowned, stroking Titania's muzzle absently. "I suppose you're right," I said unhappily, "I would never be able to give him the life he needs."

Germain put a huge arm around my shoulder. "There, there, don't fret," he said. "There will be other horses. What else happened at the camp?"

I smiled sheepishly. "Oh, I forgot to tell you, we—well, we lost Sophie for awhile. But then we found her." I looked away, biting my lip and wondering if I should tell Germain about the gypsy boy.

"You lost Sophie and you've been worrying about a horse you'll never be able to have?" he said with mock disapproval.

"It slipped my mind, I suppose," I grinned. I didn't need to say anything about Emilian; even Sophie herself had probably forgotten him already.

When I went to the stables the next morning, Germain wouldn't stop smiling at me. When I asked him what was the matter, he shook his head, still smiling, and gestured for me to follow him. He led me down one of the aisles to the back of the barn. There, in the very last stall, was the black stallion.

"Oh, Germain!" I said excitedly, struggling to keep from disturbing the horses by shouting. "However did you manage it!"

"It wasn't me," he said simply, "it was Prince Étienne. He went to the gypsy camp last night, and demanded it. He paid the gypsy nearly a hundred gold pieces for it, I'm told," he added, lowering his voice.

"A hundred! _Mon dieu_! Though his spoiled nature has come in useful," I remarked.

"I just knew it had to be the one you were talking about," Germain said. "It was quite a time getting him over here, though, I'll tell you that much--the thing's as stubborn as an ass. Bit through a harness, kicked in two stalls, and nearly gave the new stablehand Jean-Paul a broken ankle." Germain glanced at the horse incredulously. "A harness, I ask you! A leather harness!"

I looked in the stall and the stallion glared at me again. "Yes," I said, "he's got a mind of his own."

Germain looked at me for a moment before saying slowly, "You know, Cécile, he doesn't belong to you."

"I know," I said.

"What I mean is, just because I pretend not to notice when you steal a ride on old Anatole every now and again doesn't mean I'll do the same with him. Because first of all, you could get hurt, and second of all, the prince probably has plans for his training."

"You knew I rode Anatole?" I said.

Germain smiled back. "Do I look like a simpleton to you?" I grinned, and he went on. "But will you promise me you won't try anything?"

"Yes, I promise," I said sincerely. He was right. There was silence for a few minutes before I asked Germain the question I'd been dying to ask. "What's his name?"

Germain smiled. "The gypsies called him Diavolo."

Diavolo. Devil. "Perfect," I said.


	3. Fate

Chapter Three: Fate

"Cécile? Can I talk to you?"

I looked up from the book I was reading and Maman looked toward the door as well. "Oh, hello, Alain," I said. "Please, come in."

Maman quickly wiped her wet hands on a towel, the trace of a smile on her face. "Cécile, dear," she said, "I'm going to go find your papa, he's forgotten his medicine again."

"Maman, don't go," I said quickly.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Cécile," she said with a bigger smile, "you're seventeen years old, you can take care of yourself for three minutes."

My heart sunk as I heard her footsteps going down the stairs. Alain usually only came up to our rooms when he had urgent news, but today he looked happy and relaxed. I knew why he was here.

Alain sat down in the chair across from mine. "How is your father?" he asked.

"Today he is all right," I responded lightly. A few years ago, Papa had come down with a terrible fever and a hacking cough. He had recovered from the fever, but the cough wouldn't go away. "Much better than last week, last week he could barely catch his breath for coughing."

"Glad to hear it," Alain said.

There was silence for several minutes before Alain said, "What's that you're reading?"

I held up the book. "_Les femmes savantes_."

"Oh." I saw no sign of comprehension in his face. It was a play by Molière, but he had no idea. Alain could read, but he had little patience for it.

"Cécile," he said, running a hand through his messy hair, "I didn't come here just to ask about your father."

"I supposed as much, Alain," I smiled.

"Well, I've known you a long time, and it's about time I--because I think--well, I really l--what I mean is, will you marry me, Cécile?" He stared at me long and hard with his brown eyes and I had to look away.

"I just…don't know what to say, Alain," I said honestly, smiling at him as best I could. "You're one of my best friends—"

"Please, Cécile, I—I love you." He looked at me sincerely. "I think I always have. Ever since I first saw you, in the gardens, do you remember?"

I nodded, smiling sadly. I knew he meant it. But it wasn't what I wanted him to say.

Don't be stupid, Cécile, I thought angrily to myself. He loves you. Just say yes, Maman will be so pleased.

But I couldn't do it. _I_ didn't love _him_. Alain didn't understand. Sweet Alain. He knew what he liked and what he didn't, but he was kind and open. If there was a problem, he attended to it immediately. He was honest, reliable, hardworking, loving, and handsome, but being even more humble he seemed not to notice any of these things. He was everything I should want in a husband.

But he just didn't understand. Maybe he did love me. But it wasn't the kind of love I wanted. There was no passion behind his brown eyes, no excitement. Just a life of the completely ordinary. He wanted a wife because it was something he was supposed to want when he got to be a certain age, and I was someone he'd always known. It was probably natural for him to think he'd marry me. But he didn't understand me as more than his friend. He wasn't what I wanted in a husband, he couldn't even hold a conversation with me for more than a few minutes. I could never spend my life with someone I couldn't even _talk_ with. Alain was a good boy, gentle and responsible. But I wanted so much more than what my life would be with him.

"Oh, Alain," I began nervously, seeing the hopeful expression on his fine features, "I—I—"

"Cécile!" Papa cried, bursting in the door. "Alain!"

My savior, I thought, breathing a sigh of relief. "Yes, Papa, what is it?" I asked urgently.

"The king!" he exclaimed, trying to catch his breath. "King Henri—dead!"

Alain and I looked to each other with expressions of alarm.

"Dead?" Alain repeated.

"Murdered—in his carriage," Papa panted. "Prince—called—servants—must go—at once!"

"Come on," I said to Alain, running out the door, silently cursing my dress for the difficulty I had running down the three dark flights of stairs to the main hall of the palace. There the servants had already begun assembling before the large staircase, normally used at joyous occasions like balls and coronations. The prince was on the landing above, looking ashen and miserable.

Alain put his hand on my back and led me to where Maman stood with Sophie and her mother. Everyone looked fearful and somber. For once even Sophie was speechless.

"Oh, if anyone didn't deserve it, it was King Henri," a few servants wailed.

"Fate is a cruel thing," others replied sadly.

"I have gathered you all here," the prince began, "to inform you that…my father was, in fact…murdered." He stopped, looking away for a moment, looking like it was too painful to go on. I felt so sorry for him. Then he cleared his throat and went on in a fairly unconvincing but businesslike way. "And also to assure you that this…_event_…will not affect your places in the palace. Thank you, you may return to your duties now."

As we left the hall, I made up an excuse to Alain how I had forgotten a few chores and would see him later. He nodded, trusting me completely, and left, though I could tell he was slightly hurt. Instead I stole away to the stables, where I found Germain giving Diavolo a fresh bale of hay.

"Oh, but Germain, I don't _want _to marry Alain," I said unhappily. "I can't explain why, but I don't feel like we…like he really _understands_ me."

Germain nodded slightly. "Then you must tell him that."

"But how?" I said.

"That I cannot tell you," Germain replied slowly, leaving to attend to the other horses.

I knew he was right. But I wanted it to be easier than that. I looked at Diavolo intently. He seemed restless. He gave a wild snort that reminded me of when I first saw him. Did he understand the turmoil outside his safe, cozy stall? I put out my hand and as he sniffed it, I spoke to him in the low voice that had trained him in the first place. It calmed him and he dug happily into his hay.

I let out a sigh and left the stables, no less distressed than I had come.

"I'm afraid we'll never be the same," Papa said a few minutes after he came into our rooms. He collapsed into his chair, coughing uncontrollably.

Maman and I ran to him, asking what he meant. I remember thinking how pronounced the lines in his forehead were, how old and tired he looked, how much worse his cough sounded now than it had for the past years. This was not the Papa I knew.

"The prince is leaving for the castle tomorrow and he has no further use for servants here in the city," he said dejectedly. "But he wishes to take me with him, along with a handful of others."

There was silence for a minute or two. I looked from Papa to Maman and back to Papa, who was sipping the tea Maman had brought him. "So you are to be taken away from us, though Maman and I are no longer needed? But he said nothing would happen to our jobs!" I cried. "How could he betray everyone like this?"

"Oh, Cécile, I'm sure he didn't mean to," Maman said quietly. "Sometimes things happen, and you can't blame the boy, he's just lost his father, and at only nineteen. And anyway, we should be thankful that Papa still has his job…" She trailed off, looking sad, but I was indignant.

"All the same!" I argued. "It is irresponsible and dishonest to mislead his staff in such a way! And Papa, you are not a young man, you would be retiring soon anyway, can't he take someone young and unattached to do your chores? Separating old couples, does he have no heart?"

"Cécile!" Maman admonished.

"And what's more, it is childish," I went on angrily, "to go sulking off to the country when his kingdom needs him most!"

"That will be enough, Cécile," Papa said sharply, putting down his teacup. "I will be going to the country to serve the prince, and that is final. We must each do what is required of us."

"I can't let you do it! I won't!" I exclaimed, grabbing a shawl and heading out the door.

"Cécile, where are you going?" Maman called.

"To make the prince see reason!" I shouted back. I stalked out of our rooms, barely realizing what I was doing, ran down the back stairs, and went right into the great hall of the palace. It was probably just after the prince's supper, I reasoned, and I knew that meant he would be in the library. I knocked on the door and one of the maids, Mathilde, opened it a crack.

"Yes, Cécile, what is it?" she whispered.

"I need to see the prince," I said firmly.

"Not now, dear," she said, looking around warily. "He's under a great deal of stress, I'm afraid, and—"

"Who is it?" I heard a voice say from behind Mathilde.

"No one, your highness, just one of the kitchen maids, she's just a bit confused," Mathilde lied.

"Let her in," the prince said, sounding defeated.

"Yes, your highness," Mathilde said. She raised an eyebrow at me but opened the door, and I stepped inside. The prince was leaning against the mantelpiece, staring into the fire as he massaged a temple. I suddenly felt horribly guilty about troubling him.

"You may go now," the prince said gruffly to Mathilde.

"Yes, your highness," she replied, curtsying and leaving.

"I suppose you've come to attack me about leaving," he sighed after Mathilde had gone. He looked at me pointedly. He, like Papa, looked tired; he was pale, his hair and clothes were disheveled, and he had dark circles under his eyes.

"No, your highness," I fibbed.

He gave a forced chuckle. "Don't lie to me."

"All right," I said cautiously, "I did come here to ask you to stay, but now I see that—"

"That I am to be pitied?" he supplied sarcastically. "That you shouldn't bother a poor mourning boy like me?"

I said nothing.

He gave me a horrible smirk. "Well, I'm glad you've realized," he continued more loudly, "that I am doing the best I can for my kingdom—"

"The best you can, your highness?" I said boldly, before I could think. "The best you can do for your kingdom is to stay here and reassure your people that the royal family is as dedicated and responsible and concerned as ever."

"I don't recall asking your advice," he bellowed at me. "You are a maid, not a queen. If I need your guidance, I shall ask you for it!"

"You don't have to ask, because I'm giving it anyway!" I cried, deciding that I was for it anyway and had better make my point.

"How dare you!" the prince shouted. "Do you value your place here?"

"I no longer have a place here, sire, as you've decided to fire everyone in the palace!"

"What, would you have me keep them here, cooking and cleaning for no one? Whose beds would they make? Whose gardens would they weed? Whose horses would they groom? It is senseless, a waste of the people's taxes! And anyway, if you are so concerned about everyone being jobless, you should know that I am taking some of my staff with me," he argued.

"I know, my father is going, but not my mother and I," I said. "Does it not affect you to know that you are breaking up families, just because one member may be particularly useful to you?"

"Did my father's murderer not care that he was breaking up a family, just because he hated someone's politics?" the prince challenged.

"Sire, that is different—"

"No, it is exactly the same!" he burst out. "Do you not see that?"

We glared at each other for a moment, breathing heavily. He was being completely irrational but my life could be on the line if I upset him any more.

"Your highness," I began more quietly, "it is unfair of you to punish your servants this way. Those who are young could get work elsewhere. But the older ones rely on this income. If you are going to dismiss them, at least give them something in return that would get them through their old age. Or at least consider taking _more_ of them with y--"

"I plan on compensating those I do not take with me, but it is ridiculous to think that that I could bring everyone from the city to the castle!" he interrupted loudly again. "The castle already has plenty of servants, I have no _need _for more than a few! As for your father, I have need of his services."

"But you can't separate him from Maman! I understand he is helpful, but please, don't break up an ailing old man and his wife," I begged.

"I need someone!" he bellowed.

"Take me instead then!" I blurted out. "I am young and well and could do his chores."

The prince paused, then said quietly, "You would do that for your father?"

"Of course," I said without hesitation.

He was silent for a moment then let out a sigh. "Very well, then," he said slowly, "I will let you come in place of your father."

I smiled. "Thank you, your highness, that is generous of you."

"Now get out of my sight," he snapped, waving a hand at me.

"Only you?" a disbelieving Papa said a few moments later, when I had related to him our discussion, omitting the fact that I had actually shouted at royalty. "Well, I won't let you do it, Cécile."

I stared at him. "But—Papa! You must! I worked so hard to get him to agree, I just couldn't—"

"I'm sorry, Cécile, you're not going. I am, and that is final."

"Papa, you are sick, you cannot leave Maman. And to go so far would certainly be bad for your health. Allow me to go in your place, you know how generous the royal family is, I will be in good hands. And so will you," I finished, gesturing at Maman.

"You are only a child, Cécile—" Maman began.

"I shall be eighteen in a few weeks' time," I interrupted, "that hardly makes me a child."

"This is preposterous, stop being so stub--," Papa began, but he was interrupted by a coughing fit that lasted several minutes.

"I am leaving for the castle in the morning, and you cannot persuade me otherwise," I said resolutely. I didn't know why I was suddenly so intent on going to the castle. It would be miserable, working all alone for the moody, rude prince. But somehow I felt it was the right thing to do. Because I knew that no matter what, I couldn't let Papa go.

"What about Alain?" Maman said quietly.

Papa looked at her. "What about Alain?"

"Alain made me an offer of marriage today," I sighed, looking away into the fire.

"And?" Papa said softly. "Did you accept him?"

"Well, we were interrupted," I explained, "when you rushed in and told us about King Henri."

"I see," Papa said at nearly a whisper. I didn't need to tell him that I didn't want to marry Alain. He already understood.


	4. The Castle

Chapter Four: The Castle

A single tear fell down my cheek as I watched the palace disappear into the distance. To think I had hated it at first, and now I was crying over leaving it. It was silly, but I couldn't help it. I also couldn't help replaying the morning's events in my head, even though I knew doing so would only make me unhappier.

I rose early to say goodbye to the horses. I gave Anatole one last carrot and sadly thanked him for the great morning rides, then bade farewell to all the other horses. I nearly cried when I reached the last stall and saw the magnificent stallion within.

"Oh, Diavolo," I whispered, "what if it's awful? What if I hate it and I miss Maman and Papa terribly? I know I will! But will he let me come home? Oh, there won't even be a home to come to! What will become of Maman and Papa? I shouldn't be going, should I?"

He whinnied. "A lot of help you are," I sniffled, on the verge of tears.

He nudged me with his muzzle and I burst into tears.

"One thing's for certain," I sobbed, rubbing his nose, "I'm never going to see you again."

"What's all this pessimism?" a jolly voice said. Germain was standing behind me, smiling.

I wiped my cheek. "What? It's the truth, I'm never going to see Diavolo again," I said, though the words came out in a jumble because of my bawling.

"Unless he accompanied you," Germain said pointedly.

"Stop teasing, can't you see what a state I'm in?" I said, wiping my face with the back of my hand.

Germain handed me a handkerchief. "I'm not teasing, Cécile," he said, looking amused.

I said dismissively, "Stop it, Germain, I'm not in the mood." Then I took another look at his expression. "Is he really?"

"Of course Diavolo is going along," Germain said simply. "The prince needs a few faithful horses, doesn't he?"

I gave Diavolo a watery smile, though he was too busy with his bale of hay to notice. At least I wouldn't be completely alone. Then I turned back to Germain. "You won't be coming though, will you?" I said slowly.

He shook his head, smiling sadly. "There's plenty of people in the country who know horses better than I." I began to cry again and he gave me a pitying face. "Come here," he said, opening his great arms and hugging me. I felt so safe, I never wanted to leave.

"Cécile?" a voice said behind me. Germain gestured slightly at the door to the stables with his head, and I turned around.

Alain smiled at me. "I thought I'd find you here."

I walked toward him, sniffling. Germain wandered off and we were left alone.

"I suppose this is your answer, then?" he asked softly, not bitterly at all.

I nodded. "Alain, I—" I began, but he interrupted me.

"You don't have to explain, Cécile." He smiled and touched my cheek. "You've far too much spirit and life in you for me."

I looked at him, the first rays of sunlight streaming in behind him and outlining his thin frame. Tears streamed down my cheeks for a moment before I threw my arms around him.

"But where are you going?" I said through my tears. "You can't live here anymore."

"To town," Alain replied, "I'm sure I'll be able to find some work there." He looked me straight in the eye for a moment. "Remember when we went to the gypsy camp, what that old fortune-teller said?"

I nodded, wiping my eyes as we broke apart, vaguely recalling the old woman's words.

"Then don't cry, this is your time to find adventure. I know it is." He looked down at me and kissed my forehead. "I will miss you, Cécile."

"I'll miss you, too," I sobbed.

"You've got to go now," Alain said, "the carriage will be leaving soon."

I said a long, tearful goodbye to Sophie. And I could barely look at Maman and Papa as the carriage pulled away without wanting to jump out and run back.

I looked away from the palace. The carriage bumped along happily and the spring flowers were blooming, both completely oblivious of my feelings. A moment or so passed before I noticed that in the seat across from mine, Thérèse Langlois, the housekeeper, was staring at me. I wiped my face, embarrassed that she had been watching me weep. Madame Langlois was a cold, calculating woman whom I had never liked, even though she had never really ordered me around when I was a mere cook's helper. But now that I would be serving in the entire castle instead of just staying in the kitchen, Papa had warned me of her hawklike eyes, always watching for anything out of place. Even now, she was looking maliciously at my face, which was probably blotchy and tear-stained.

I looked at the small bag of food in my lap and decided to have a bun. I reluctantly offered them to the other passengers. Messieurs Dallaire and Aucoin declined politely, but Madame Langlois accepted. Typical, I thought, as I passed her one with a smile much more friendly than she deserved. She had once made Papa work late into the night and pay three times the actual worth of a dish he had broken when a clumsy maid ran into him. I shuddered to think what she had done to the poor maid.

I sighed. I missed Papa already. And Maman. And Germain, Alain, and Sophie. Leaving them was much harder than I had expected. And I had expected it to be terrible.

My stomach churned, though the sharp turn the carriage had just taken had nothing to do with it. But maybe Alain was right. I had completely forgotten about the gypsy woman. What was it she had said? Something about adventure and love. Maybe I should see this as an opportunity, I considered. After all, I had never been away from the palace, and something interesting was bound to happen to me, wasn't it? And the gypsy had been right before, in her assessment of Sophie. She had had many a beau over the past few years, the most recent called Christophe. My mind spinning, I fell asleep.

"Mademoiselle Pierpont," a sharp voice said, and my head snapped up. Madame Langlois was smirking at me. I felt my face turn bright red and sat up straight. "We're nearing the castle," she said.

"Thank you," I replied.

The carriage turned down a cobblestone drive and we were jostled up and down. One more turn and the castle came into view, looming in the distance. I exhaled softly. This was my new home.


	5. Legacies

Chapter Five: Legacies

I awoke the next morning to the crowing of a rooster. Yawning feebly, I got up off my pallet and dressed myself in the dark--Madame Langlois had informed the servants that she wanted us to begin work at daybreak. I ate a simple meal in the kitchen then began my duties. I lit all the fireplaces upstairs (quite a task, as there were at least twenty rooms in the enormous old castle) then Madame Langlois bade me mop all the staircases. I was then instructed to beat the dust out of the curtains in the bedrooms, a job for at least three which I had to do alone. Then I set about scrubbing the floors in the main hall. I was not given leave to stop for lunch, so I worked straight until dinner, which consisted of thin soup and stale bread.

And it only got worse, though I was by no means the only one suffering. All the maids, cooks, butlers, and gardeners felt the wrath of Madame Langlois, the former, more lenient housekeeper having been dismissed at the prince's arrival in the country. Every job, according to her, was done poorly or too slowly and we labored from dawn till dusk. There was word from town that taxes were sky-high. Apparently the entire kingdom was having to endure these hardships.

Soon after we arrived, I was told to take the prince his afternoon tea. I confess at the time I would much rather have polished the silver all over again, but I did as I had been told.

"Oh, it's you," the prince said upon seeing me. He looked perhaps worse than he had a few weeks before at the palace. He had already gotten thinner and wearier and I avoided his gaze.

"Are you enjoying it here?" he asked.

I nearly snorted aloud. Enjoying it? Was I _enjoying _being worked like an animal? Was I _enjoying_ doing so many chores that I fell asleep as soon as I pulled my threadbare blanket over me? But I set the tea tray in front of him and said dutifully, "Yes, your highness, I am very grateful."

He said nothing and I curtsied and left the room.

The next day, when I brought his tea to him again, I failed to suppress a yawn as I was leaving.

"Tired, maid?" he asked bluntly.

"No, your highness," I said quickly.

He smirked. "Well you can't be as tired as me."

I sincerely doubted it, and wished to tell him so, but instead I answered, "I'm sure you're right, your highness."

This new job should have been the easiest part of my long day, but I often dreaded what the prince would say to me when I saw him. I knew he was often up all night working, but though he now had the duties of king (without the title, due to his unmarried status), to me he seemed the same spoiled prince I had met nearly ten years before. He ordered everyone about and demanded things all day long: money from the peasants that they could not give him, tasks from his servants that they could scarcely stay awake to complete. Everyone grew to hate him and Madame Langlois, who turned into a symbol of his tyranny. She forbade any kind of chatter while we were working. Any shirking of chores resulted in severe punishment. Apparently she thought that the castle needed to be spotless to reduce the number of problems plaguing the prince.

I became thinner and paler and my hair darkened from working inside all day long. The few books I had brought gathered dust next to my bed. I hadn't seen Diavolo in weeks, though I'd promised myself I would visit him faithfully. I missed my family dearly and had terrible dreams at night.

I took the prince tea everyday, and he was always sure to offer me a few callous remarks about how much he was suffering. The first time I truly felt sorry for him, though, was when I walked in on him examining a lovely gold ring.

"Is this pretty?" he said to me.

"Why yes, your highness, it is," I said, slightly puzzled.

"I don't think it very pretty," he answered. "It should be. But I suppose when a thing has a certain meaning, it cannot be pretty."

"I'm afraid I don't understand, your highness," I said quietly, placing his tea on the table.

"Of course you don't."

I bristled. I may not have had his money, but I was not stupid, and there was no reason for him to say anything so offensive.

"You see, maid," he sighed, "my parents gave it to me. I am to give it to my bride." He glanced up at me from where he was reclining on an elegant sofa, then looked back at the ring box in his hand. "But I have no bride. No one would marry a selfish pig like me. And that is why something that should be beautiful has been spoiled. Because it reminds me of what a beast I am."

I softened my expression. _Mon dieu_, I thought, how am I to reply to that?

He sighed again at my silence. "Tell me, maid, what is your name?"

"Cécile Pierpont, your highness."

"Cécile. I knew that," he said, squinting slightly as if trying to see something in the distance. "Somehow."

I did not reply.

A moment later, he said, "Mademoiselle Pierpont, why do my people hate me?"

I couldn't believe he would ask me a question like this. I was sure to give an unsatisfactory answer. Then I would be fired. Or possibly even beheaded. The prince did have a nasty temper.

"They do not hate you, your highness," I said with a quivering voice, though it was as sincerely and easily as I could manage. "They are just…upset." Would that word be good enough for him? "They are upset over their…lack of means," I finished lamely. I fidgeted with my apron.

He gave a cold, hard laugh. "They should tell that to my father. It is his fault we are all in this trouble. They wouldn't be so damned poor if it weren't for him."

I tried not to stare at him, though I couldn't believe he would speak that way about his own father.

"You hate me as well," he said softly.

I prayed I wasn't blushing. This was evolving into the strangest conversation I had ever had, but before I had time to deny it, he went on.

"Well I must tell you, if it weren't for these pointless wars my father had gotten us into, I wouldn't have these debts hanging over my head. Yes, he gave the people what they wanted," he continued bitterly, "a reason for patriotism, freedom, happiness. Yes, yes. But he was driving the kingdom into the ground. And it is my job to pick up the pieces. If only I had a pretty younger sister to marry off, perhaps I could make _some_ money." He gave a twisted smiled and snapped the ring box shut. "I would like to leave more than just debts for my own son."

So far, I thought wryly, he wasn't doing terribly well with that ambition. The people were poorer than ever. And it seemed unlikely that he would ever find a wife.

"Leave," he said suddenly, making me jump.

I gave a quick curtsy and left the room nervously. I was immediately ordered back to work, and I cleaned windows until Madame Langlois let me go later that night.

"You think I'm a selfish pig, too, don't you?" the prince asked me the next day.

"Of course not, your highness," I fibbed. Of course I thought he was a selfish pig. Had he looked out from the safety of his fortress lately? His people were starving while he was comfortable and safe.

"You're not a good liar, Mademoiselle Pierpont," he said with a smirk. I felt my face heat up and protested (though rather unconvincingly, probably), and left the room as quickly as I could.

Later that day as I did my chores, I wondered whether I did think the prince was a selfish pig or not. Suddenly I couldn't make up my mind. Because he seemed to be two different people at the same time. He was the heartless dictator who ran his household and kingdom with an iron fist and taxed his people into starvation. But he was also the tired, ashen, vulnerable boy, barely a few years older than myself, whom I saw at tea time.

The next day the rains began. It poured for a whole week, as though the heavens were crying for the poor people of the kingdom. The castle was dreary and without the sunlight we used up dozens of candles a day just to do our chores. The stormclouds finally lifted, but the mood didn't. It was as though a spell had been cast on the prince's subjects--they had become somber and lifeless. Even the land itself lost its bloom, the once-vibrant green fields and rose gardens turning a dingy brown. I hardly knew the place anymore.


	6. The Thief

Chapter Six: The Thief

I began to lose track of the days. They were all the same, anyway. I woke up, had a few bites of bread, did some chores, lowered my eyes as Madame Langlois lectured, did some more chores, took the prince his tea, did more chores yet, ate another meal if I was lucky, and shivered on my pallet for a few moments before drifting into an uneasy sleep. Perhaps every two or three weeks I would get a day off, which I would spend visiting Diavolo and reading in his stall. I relished my time in the stables. Though they were not as elegant as those in town had been, they provided shelter against the summer heat and autumn winds and were, naturally, always filled with the sounds and smells of horses. But most importantly they were about as far away from Madame Langlois as I could get without leaving the castle grounds.

The time passed, it seemed to me, at a snail's pace, but at last winter arrived. Though the snow was beautiful, falling in thick white blankets, it was bitterly cold inside the drafty old castle. Yuletide was overlooked; the prince had no time for celebrations. Madame Langlois went so far as to forbidding any festivities or merriment among the servants, and the only way we were allowed to observe the holiday was by attending services in the castle's chapel. The months went by too slowly for my liking. But toward the end of the long winter I received news that made the subzero temperatures a little more bearable. In an effort to reduce costs, the prince had let several of his older maids go and was replacing them with someone who would accept lower wages. Which, I reasoned, must have meant that she would be young. Perhaps I would have a good friend at long last. Of course, I wasn't completely alone. I shared my room with Élisabeth, a pretty maid who was perhaps in her mid-twenties, and married to one of the butlers. She was understanding, if a little curt at times. But she was the closest in age to me of all the maids, and Madame Langlois' rules meant that we didn't often get to talk.

Madame Langlois thrust the girl at me moments after she arrived. "Teach her how things work in this household," she said with a horrible smirk.

The girl was still in traveling clothes and she looked wayworn and terrified. She had limp brown hair and small, mouselike features. Her name was Margaux and we were almost exactly the same age, though she was much shorter than I was. She told me that she lived in a village a few miles away and that she had come in order to earn enough money to marry the man she loved.

"Oh," I responded softly. So she wouldn't be here for long. I stole another glance at her. She was not ugly, but she was no great beauty. I was jealous of her having found someone she loved so soon. But she was not so very young, I reminded myself. She, like me, would be turning nineteen at the end of the summer, a fine age to be married. I tried not to think about the fact that I hadn't met anyone yet. Perhaps I would have to marry Alain after all.

But by now he had probably found a girl more suited to him. I tried to picture her. She would be blond--no, a redhead, and she'd be pretty and cheerful. But she would understand her duties and be down-to-earth and respectful as well. She, like Alain, would be completely free of any vanity, she would seem oblivious to the fact that she was lovely. There would be no way in the world anyone could hate her, or be jealous of her, simply because she was too sweet. She would know a lot about flowers and butterflies and birds and be terribly in love with Alain. In short, she would be nothing like me. And they would be totally, perfectly, radiantly happy together.

I sniffled. Alain was _my _friend. Not hers. I knew him first.

Yes, but you rejected him, said a cruel voice in my head.

But I didn't know what would happen to me then, I protested silently. I didn't know I'd be slaving away in the middle of nowhere for a year.

A tear fell down my cheek but I brushed it away angrily. The girl wasn't even real, I had made her up. And I didn't _want_ to marry Alain. And if I did, it would be using him most cruelly.

* * *

Margaux was very shy and hardly spoke. She was petrified of doing anything against the rules and upsetting Madame Langlois. She didn't dare talk as we did our chores together. 

Well, at least I won't have to part with my new best friend when the time comes for her to go, I thought dryly. With a pang my thoughts jumped to Sophie. We may not have gotten along all the time, but she had been my closest female friend, and I missed her dearly. And then I thought again of Alain, and then Germain. And Maman and Papa.

I looked up, trying to prevent my eyes from overflowing with the tears that had begun forming, and scrubbed angrily at a spot on the window. I hadn't cried over them in a several months, and I wasn't about to break down now.

"So, Mademoiselle Pierpont, what's going on in my castle?" the prince asked me one day. He had often asked me this.

I put his tea tray in front of him. "There's a new maid," I told him, unsure what else I could say.

"Ah yes," he replied with a slightly frightening tone of malice, "the one who will accept the wages equal to a beggar's earnings."

"That's not fair of you, your highness," I protested before I could think what I was saying. "Margaux is a real person with--"

"Oh, shut up, I'm not forcing her to work here, am I?" the prince snapped.

I knew my cheeks must have been flaming but I continued. "Do you know she's only trying to earn a few francs so she can get married? Aren't you ashamed that you're--"

"Which of us has royal blood?" he demanded of me. "Are you slaving away all day and night, trying to make ends meet? No, you're nothing but a common maid."

How dare he! Yes, I was slaving away all day and night. Probably even more so than he was. But I merely pursed my lips angrily, gave a slow curtsy and left the room. _Someone _needed to talk to the prince the way I did. And with no father and a mother who never quit her room, the royals wouldn't be the ones to do it. I had known him probably the longest of anyone here in the country. So the task fell to me.

* * *

In just a few weeks springtime was upon us again, which meant that I had been at the castle nearly a year. A few flower buds peeked up hopefully, but were soon killed by a cold frost. The miserable feeling everyone got in the castle couldn't be shaken; most days were cloudy and dark and tempers ran even higher than normal. In fact, Margaux hadn't even been working at the castle a month when Madame Langlois called anyone who worked inside the castle to the hall. This was sure to be a bad sign. 

"One of you," Madame Langlois said slowly but cruelly, "has made off with several objects of considerable value." She surveyed us maliciously. "Would anyone like to come forward?"

No one said anything. I didn't dare look at any of the other servants lest Madame Langlois, for some twisted reason, thought I was guilty of the theft.

She looked down the row of servants. She studied the old cooks for a moment, then went to the butlers, then the maids.

"And I have reason to believe that it was you, Mademoiselle Laramie."

Thunder clapped ominously and everyone turned to Margaux, who was quivering and white as a ghost.

"It w-wasn't me, Madame," she stuttered, clearly petrified. Rain began to fall, pattering softly on the windowpanes at first but growing more violent with each passing second.

"And you, Mademoiselle Pierpont," Madame Langlois said, rounding on me. "It was your duty to watch over her!"

"She says she didn't do it, Madame," I said as respectfully as I could, though the moment the words passed my lips I wished I had had the sense to hold my tongue.

"And you trust this lying little thief? You must be in on it as well!" she said accusingly, her shrill voice carrying over the heavy rain outside.

"I swear to you, Madame, I am not!"

Madame Langlois seemed ready to explode. "You two," she said, shaking with anger, "you will do double chores for the next month, with no dinner! Now, go do the laundry at the stream! The rest of you are dismissed."

"But Madame--the rain!" Margaux squeaked, and though I was thinking the same thing I nearly slapped her for her foolishness. "The clothes will dirty again in the mud!"

"Then you'll have to do it twice, won't you?" Madame Langlois snapped.

Margaux and I grabbed the laundry and blankets to wrap ourselves in and headed out the door. The winds bit at us and the cold March rain stung our faces and hands. We could hardly see to get to the brook where we did the washing.

A half-hour's trudge through the rain later, we found the place we did the laundry on Wednesday mornings. The banks of the little creek were so slippery that we could hardly stay up, but for some reason I found myself determined to do the laundry properly, despite the fact that both we and the clothes were so drenched that there was no point to it. Margaux seemed too terrified to do anything but follow my lead, so we both washed the clothes as vigorously as usual, despite the storm raging around us. Madame Langlois' face appeared in every piece of laundry and it pushed me to scrub it hard. Indeed, my thoughts were focused so intently on how much I hated Madame Langlois at that moment that I almost didn't notice when Margaux slipped and fell in the stream.

"Cécile!" I heard her voice over the storm, half underwater. I hadn't realized the stream was so deep. I immediately plunged into the water after her. She was moving quickly downstream but I caught up to her and pulled her to the bank as she coughed up the water. We sat, breathing hard for a moment, before I said, "We're going inside now."

"But--we're not done!" she said. I had never realized how irritating her voice was.

"I don't care," I said, "I'm not staying out here any longer." And I picked up the laundry and left, with Margaux scurrying after me.

"I'm so sorry, Cécile," Margaux said softly, shivering as we reentered the castle and headed up the narrow stairs to the servants' quarters. "I didn't mean to get you in trouble. I just thought that if I had a little extra money, Antoine and I could--"

"You mean you were the thief?" I burst out.

She nodded, teeth chattering and looking suddenly scared of me as well. "But I put them back!" she began quickly. "I didn't keep them--"

"I trusted you, Margaux," I said in disbelief, "I had faith in your word. I stood up for you when Madame Langlois accused you. I saved you! I can't believe you were guilty the entire time!"

I never spoke another word to her, for she went away the next morning.


	7. Breakdown

Chapter Seven: Breakdown

"Cécile!" a voice said next to me.

I opened my eyes groggily. Why was I so tired? I felt like I could go to sleep for a hundred years.

"Cécile!" the voice said again, more urgently. It was Élisabeth, one of the other maids I shared my room with. "You've just got to get up!"

"I can't, I feel awful," I groaned, "I'm so tired."

"I know that," Élisabeth replied, looking nervous, "but please, Madame Langlois will be up any minute if you don't! And you're already in trouble with her!"

I knew she was right. I tried to stand up but couldn't, and swooned dizzily back onto my mattress.

Élisabeth clutched at her heart, scared for my sake. She put a hand to my forehead and exclaimed, "You're burning up, Cécile!"

I shivered violently and she covered me up with her own blanket as well as mine.

"How could she do this to you," Élisabeth said roughly. "This is all her fault, making you go out in that storm yesterday."

"I didn't do it," I said weakly.

"Of course you didn't," she replied immediately. "I just can't believe her." I must have fallen asleep to Élisabeth's grumblings, because the next thing I knew Madame Langlois was standing next to my bed with her hands on her hips.

"How dare you!" she screeched, and I sat up, trying to ignore the pains in my head. Sunlight was streaming into the small room. "You have the audacity to shirk your duties when you've just been punished for your reckless behavior?"

"She didn't do it," I heard Élisabeth say from the doorway.

"You'll stay out of this if you know what's good for you," Madame Langlois told her nastily. "And as for you! You are to get up this instant and wash the windows in the hallway!"

"Yes, Madame," I said, attempting to stand up. When I nearly fell over again, Élisabeth rushed to my side.

"Can't you see she's ill?" she pleaded, sounding hysterical.

"No, Élisabeth, I'm fine," I said softly. Madame Langlois smiled triumphantly, knowing I wouldn't disobey her, and left.

"We both know you are not well," Élisabeth said reproachfully.

"I can wash windows, that is a simple enough task," I said stubbornly. I got dressed as quickly as I could and set off downstairs. Ten minutes later I found myself doing chores and thinking of what Maman would say. I realized with horror that I didn't know, I couldn't even imagine what she would tell me. Would she say to go to bed? Would she say that it was best that I not anger Madame Langlois even more?

My eyes filled with tears. There must have been something wrong with me, forgetting my family. I had been here too long. I needed to leave, to get out. I wanted to run away. I stood up quickly and threw my towel aside, and as I did suddenly the past year came rushing at me: being worked like a slave, taking tea to the infuriating prince every day, the lack of sleep, Margaux, my family, the storm of the day before, and most of all Madame Langlois' horrible smirks.

Suddenly everything started spinning. My head, my stomach, everything was exploding with pain. I let out a cry. Then I hit the ground.

* * *

"Cécile?" 

I opened my eyes and gradually the scene came into focus. I was lying on my pallet, and Élisabeth sat next to me, looking worried.

"Cécile, how are you feeling?" she said.

I wanted to reply that I was all right, but the words wouldn't come out, I was too tired. I drifted back to sleep.

"How is she?" 

"She's not very well, your highness."

"Then she must be moved from this filthy room! I demand it! Put her in one of the spare bedchambers in the east wing."

"Yes, sire."

My eyes fluttered open and before I fell back asleep I thought I caught a glimpse of…no, it couldn't be, it was impossible…the prince? Looking at me? Or had I dreamt it?

"Was that the prince?" I said weakly as soon as I could.

"What?" Élisabeth said.

"The prince," I repeated.

"Yes, he was here a few hours ago," she said, looking confused.

A few hours ago? It had seemed like but a moment ago to me. I looked around lethargically. "Where am I?"

"The east wing," another voice answered.

"Élisabeth?" I called.

"She left, dear," said a kind older maid called Hélène, smiling down at me.

What a horrible mole on Hélène's chin, I thought sleepily. I wondered with a pang whether I had said that aloud or in my head.

"Where did she go?" I asked.

"Where did who go, love?" Hélène said.

"Élisabeth," I answered. Why couldn't Hélène remember the question I had just asked her?

"She had to do her chores, she's been gone for hours," Hélène said.

It was as though I couldn't hold a conversation without falling asleep in the middle of it, and it was frustrating me. But before I could think anymore about it, I dozed off again.

"Cécile, please eat this," I heard Élisabeth's voice.

"Hélène said you left," I tried to tell her, but it came out too softly.

"Please, eat this, you haven't eaten in nearly two days," Élisabeth pressed, putting a spoon toward my mouth.

"I'm so hot," I moaned, and Élisabeth pulled back the blanket. A fire crackled. A fire in the servants' quarters? I thought dazedly. How odd.

"Just eat this, Cécile," she pleaded.

I had only had a few mouthfuls of soup before I felt like retching. "No more," I begged before I fell asleep again.

* * *

There was a cold compress on my forehead. 

I looked up. It was Élisabeth again.

"Good morning," she said brightly. "How are you feeling? Any better?"

"A little," I said. I surveyed my surroundings wearily. "Where…?"

"The east wing, remember?"

I thought about it for a moment before shaking my head. "How long have I been here?" I asked in a hoarse voice.

"About a week and a half," Élisabeth replied. She tucked a lock of chestnut hair behind her ear and flipped the towel on my forehead to the cool side.

A week and a half? I only remembered snippets: Hélène grinding strange-smelling herbs, a doctor looking at me, feeling hot and cold at the same time, nausea and terrible headaches, Élisabeth trying to comfort me.

And the nightmares. The horrible nightmares. Papa lying in bed as Maman nursed him. Sophie crying, though I didn't know why. The prince, holding fast to my hand as I tried to run away from him. Margaux, pointing her finger at me and accusing me of stealing as I protested in vain. Madame Langlois, just laughing.

I tried to prop myself up in the huge four-poster bed. Someone had drawn back the curtains, and the morning light was pouring cheerfully into the room.

Élisabeth stopped me. "Lie still, Cécile. Doctor's orders. And the prince's, too," she added with a slightly sarcastic smile.

"The prince?" I said, thinking of my dreams with a shudder. "What's he got to do with it?"

"He's only been in here night and day, making sure you're well," Élisabeth said. The prince? Making sure _I_ was well? Surely this was not the same prince I took tea every day. "He ordered that you be moved here, and he brought in the royal doctor to examine you," Élisabeth went on. "And when that doctor couldn't get you to wake up, he got another doctor. And if that wasn't enough he's been visiting you four times a day."

I couldn't speak for a moment, I was so shocked. "I don't recall any of it," I said truthfully.

"Well, this is the first time I've actually had a conversation with you since--" she counted quickly on her fingers "--last Sunday."

I let out a kind of whimper. I'd missed so much work. "Is Madame Langlois going to fire me?"

"Don't you think about that old witch," Élisabeth said, bristling. "It's her fault you're sick at all, she had better let you rest for a few weeks. Or she'll have me to answer to." She put the cloth in a bowl of water, and squeezed out the excess before slapping it savagely back onto my forehead. "I am not afraid of her," she said, her jaw jutting out.

I smiled and briefly imagined the pretty Élisabeth standing up to Madame Langlois. A rather funny thought. Not too far-fetched, either.

"I'm going to get you some soup," Élisabeth announced, leaving the room.

I frowned, pondering what she'd said about the prince. This was all so uncharacteristically kind of him. I couldn't imagine why he would bother.


	8. Truth

Hey everyone, thanks for the reviews! So glad you didn't mind chapter seven. I want to dedicate this chapter to my buddy Celestial Starlight, who's been amazingly attentive to my non-action-packed fic. Chapter eight's really choppy, so I'd love any tips you've got on making it flow better. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Eight: Truth

"How are you feeling?"

I looked up from the tattered old book I was reading to see the prince standing in the doorway. "Better, I thank you, your highness," I said respectfully, but not kindly. "Please, come in."

He stepped inside and sat on the chair next to the bed.

"I have heard much of your kindness," I began after a moment, "and I owe you many thanks."

The prince flushed slightly. "It was nothing," he muttered.

There was a silence.

"How did you learn of my being ill in the first place, your highness?" I asked, annoyed that I would have to be the one to make conversation.

"How could I not notice when some ugly old woman brought me my tea instead of you?"

It was my turn to go red in the face. Of course. What a stupid question, Cécile, I scolded myself.

"Well, I am glad to hear you're feeling better," he said briskly, "but I have work to do."

"Of course, your highness," I said, reprimanding myself again for wasting his time. "And thank you again."

He nodded and left.

I exhaled slowly and loudly. That had been awkward indeed.

* * *

"Any better today?" 

Not the prince again. I contained a sigh as I put my book down next to me. It was one I'd had since I was thirteen, so he wasn't really interrupting me, but hadn't our last meeting provided enough discomfort for awhile?

"About the same, your highness," I said. "Won't you sit down?" I asked politely, gesturing halfheartedly toward the chair next to my bed.

He took the seat. I studied him for a moment. He looked different. He was still pale and thin but there was something about him that was out of the ordinary. After a moment, I realized what it was. He seemed to have--yes, that was it--a new kind of determination about him, which surprised me. I had expected his usual weariness.

He ran a hand through his dark hair idly and then picked up my book. "_Don Quixote_," he said, nodding appreciatively. "I love this book. Is it the first time you've read it?"

"Oh no, sire," I replied. "I've probably read it a hundred times by now." I laughed lightly.

"Well, if you--I mean, you could always, well, borrow some from the royal library," he stammered. "I'd be happy to get you a few."

Like I needed any more of his charity! "Thank you, your highness, but I wouldn't dream of--"

"Nonsense, I'll bring you something tomorrow," he said with a slight awkwardness.

"I would like that very much, sire," I told him blandly, giving up.

He gave a slight frown and looked away from me.

Now I'd upset him. "I haven't read a new book in years, that would be lovely," I said as happily as I could manage.

He smiled. Not his usual arrogant smirk, just a friendly (if a little timid) smile. I didn't know if I'd ever seen the expression on his face, in all the years I had known him. "Good, I'll bring you something new tomorrow. But you are not well, I can tell that much, I shall leave you now."

Finally, I thought.

* * *

The prince kept his word; the next day he brought me a book just after lunchtime. 

"I know you liked _Don Quixote_," he said, "so I think you'll like this. It's by Scarron, it's very funny." I thanked him and he went on. "How are you feeling?" he asked me, as was always his custom to ask, multiple times a day.

"Still not very well, I'm afraid, your highness," I replied quietly. "I still have a fever and Élisabeth says I must keep to my bed a week or two yet." And I suffer most of all during your visits, I thought.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," the prince said. "You must not get up until you are quite sure you are completely recovered."

"That is very generous of you, your highness," I said, embarrassed of my own disrespectfulness. He was being so kind to me, what right had I to question and scorn?

"It is my responsibility," he said, then added, with a pink tinge in his pale cheeks, "and my pleasure."

I was puzzled again. As he left the room, I thought about how repulsive a person I had always found him. He had been selfish and completely unfeeling. Now he was making such obvious efforts to act kindly and gentlemanly. What had happened to the childish prince in the drawing room, bickering over a servant girl's wages and arguing with a mere maid? What could have affected such a change in him?

And why? We were always arguing, and now suddenly he cared about what happened to me? He had, on numerous occasions, asserted quite clearly that I was nothing but another subject. Then why was he giving me this special treatment?

Over the next few weeks, I ravenously read the Scarron, and two or three others he brought me. We discussed them when he visited--I was surprised to find him a very thoughtful companion. He truly understood what was going on in the books, more than just the plot. I had never had anyone like that, except maybe Papa.

Not only was I was getting stronger, but the prince's health seemed to be improving as well. With each passing day I saw his dark circles lifting, the immature tone in his voice disappearing, and his dark eyes gaining some life. His face was still chiseled but not quite so gaunt; his skin retained its natural fairness but lost the sallow tinge. He smiled more and more, we laughed over the books and spoke gaily of times gone by.

And yet I could not quite forget the way he had been before, wondering whether the people of the kingdom were still starving. I wanted to be his friend, but was I betraying my family and fellow servants?

* * *

"Madamoiselle Pierpont," he said softly one day, "how did you become so ill in the first place?" 

I hesitated. I knew, no matter how much I hated her, that I could not betray the fact that Madame Langlois had sent me into the rain. "I think," I began carefully, "that all the stresses of the past year were just building up, and then on the way home from town, I got caught in that horrible storm."

He nodded. "I know exactly what you mean. I, well, I was deeply affected by my father's death, and what with the debts, and the poor harvest, it all just…"

He looked up at me with dead, hopeless eyes. I smiled reassuringly at him. "It has been hard on all of us," I said.

* * *

"Your highness, I have a confession to make," I said the next day. _No, stop, Cécile!_ I told myself urgently, but I still went on. 

"A confession?"

I sighed, looking away from him. "I did not speak the truth about how I became ill. I did not get _caught _in the storm, I was in fact…sent out into it." I took a deep breath and told him the story of Margaux's and my punishment from Madame Langlois.

He shook his head stubbornly at the end of it. "I simply cannot believe that," he said. "Madame Langlois would do no such thing. She is far too prudent."

"Your highness, Madame Langlois may be a prudent housekeeper," I said, my voice sounding stronger than I felt, "but I cannot call her a kind woman. The servants are terrified of her, she gives out cruel punishments for minor infractions. We scarcely get two meals a day, we are paid even less than you think--"

He held up a hand, his face set. "Stop, Mademoiselle."

"No, sire, I will not," I said loudly. "Your servants are suffering, and you're too cowardly to do anything about it!"

He stood up. "Madame Langlois," he said, with a quiver in his voice, "is a faithful and sensible woman who knows better than to treat my servants this way."

I glared stubbornly at him as he left the room, vowing to prove that I was right.

* * *

Hope you liked it, please review! 


	9. Triumph

I know it's been a little longer than normal, everyone, but things have been busy lately. I'll probably be updating less frequently, I'm sorry to say, now that the summer's over. But I hope you enjoy this chapter, which, once again, wouldn't have been possible without the wonderful Celestial Starlight, now Celestial Seraphim.

* * *

Chapter Nine: Triumph

Whatever progress I had made over my ailment vanished abruptly. The fever was worse than it had been in a week, and whenever I thought of the prince I felt as though the few bites of soup I'd had would come rushing back up. I pictured his face, his disgust with me, and wanted to cry.

What was the matter with me? Why did I care what the prince thought of me? It wasn't as though he hadn't always thought ill of me. Why was his good opinion suddenly so important? Why was I suffering so much, when I had always found him so repulsive? A thousand questions flew through my head, whether I was awake or asleep.

Once as I was starting to slip into an agitated sleep, a knock at the door startled me.

"Come in," I croaked with annoyance, too weak to turn my head toward the door. It was probably Élisabeth, anyway. Why couldn't she leave me alone?

"May I request an audience?"

The prince! I stopped frowning into my pillow and turned around. "Of course, please, sit down," I said eagerly.

"I'm sorry, Mademoiselle Pierpont," he said sadly. "I should have listened to you. I simply had no idea what was going on under my own nose. Then I just started paying attention and saw things I'd been blind to. You were--you were right. Can you forgive my arrogance?"

It all came out in a rush and he was breathing deeply. I knew how hard a speech of this kind had been for him. Sitting at my side at that moment, he looked about three times taller than normal. His face was resolute and regal, despite his apologetic expression. I smiled at him. "Of course I can. I've missed talking to you the past few days."

We both reddened slightly--there went my mouth again. It had just slipped out; while it was true, I would never had said something so candid had I been thinking. "Well, what is to be done then?" I said, still blushing.

"I--I am not sure," he said uncomfortably. "I do not wish to act rashly."

I nodded. "Of course, your highness."

He opened his mouth as though he had something to say, then closed it again. He looked around the room for a moment before his eyes settled on me again. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better," I replied.

* * *

"Cécile! The entire castle is in uproar, and you'll never guess what over!" Élisabeth cried, running into my room a few days later. 

I sat up. I'd been feeling well enough the past few days that I didn't have to lie down continually. "What is it, Élisabeth?"

She grabbed my hands. "I know you won't believe this, but the prince has dismissed Madame Langlois!"

I smiled. He had finally had the courage.

"Well, you don't seem terribly surprised, but I can scarcely believe it!" Élisabeth said breathlessly. "Hélène said she left the place in a huff, shouting things back at all the servants, and, oh, how I wish I had seen it, I was mopping the floors in the gallery upstairs, but it sounded magnificent! I should have liked to tell that woman what I thought of her!"

I giggled and went back to my book as she left.

Not long after, the prince had hired a new housekeeper, Madame Tessier. Though she clearly had less experience than Madame Langlois, she was a kind and levelheaded woman, and the servants obeyed her readily. And she took criticism well, seeming dedicated to do the very best she could. But everyone agreed that the prince could have hired a goat as housekeeper and the relief from Madame Langlois would have still been welcome. 

It was now April, and my impatience to leave the stuffy castle was helping me to recover. I was getting steadily stronger; the doctor had told me that within a day or two I would be able to go back to work.

"What a miraculous recovery. Have you been drinking magic potions?" he joked.

Hélène winked at me from behind the doctor's back.

"Your highness," I said tentatively when I saw him next, "I have something to ask of you." 

"Yes, what is it?"

"I've been thinking about it for some time, and you've been so kind to me, but I miss my family terribly. My father was very sick when I left him. Would you grant me a little time to visit them?"

A frown crossed his features for a split second, almost invisible, before he said slowly, "Of course you must visit them."

"Thank you so much, your highness," I smiled at him. "I've not seen them for nearly a year."

"You're welcome, Mademoiselle Pierpont. Tell your father I wish him good health. You will return in a month." He swept his hand through his dark hair. "Here, take this," he told me, holding out a leather-bound volume. "It will remind you of...the castle."

"_La princesse de Clèves_," I read the title aloud. It was a famous book.

"I wish you a safe trip," the prince said, leaving.

I practically leaped out of the bed. I wasn't going to waste a moment. I would be seeing my parents soon!

* * *

"You're sure you're up to such a long journey?" Élisabeth asked me the next day, looking a little anxious. 

"It is only a few hours' ride. See you in a month," I smiled, giving her a hug.

She squeezed me tightly. "I'll kill you if you get sick again," she teased. "Have a good trip. Say hello to your parents for me."

I climbed onto Diavolo's back, biting my lip unsurely. I hadn't dared to tell Élisabeth for fear of not being allowed to go, but I didn't actually know where my parents were. I was going to go to the town near the palace, where I hoped to find Alain or Sophie or someone else who knew where they were.

"Riding astride?" she snickered, though goodnaturedly.

"How am I supposed to gallop sidesaddle?" I joked in response. Grinning, I kicked my heels into Diavolo's sides.

"_Au revoir!_" Élisabeth yelled as we flew off.

I turned back to her, waving wildly, and as I did, I thought I saw someone watching me from one of the second-floor windows. But I looked away. I had left my life of servitude for a whole month, and I wasn't going to look back until I had to.

I turned around and breathed in the spring air. I couldn't suppress a smile as I felt Diavolo's powerful muscles working under me. I had forgotten the feeling of riding a horse. It was a little chilly out, but it didn't matter. The wind blew through my hair and Diavolo's glossy black coat shone in the sun as we crossed the open plain.

"Whoa," I said, slowing the horse down as we entered the forest surrounding the castle. There was a peace that completely engulfed us in the wood, a beautiful silence that I had long since forgotten. It took me back to when I was very little, when we lived in the forest and I would spend my time exploring in the trees around our tiny home.

We rode on for an hour or two. Entirely lost in my own thoughts, I almost didn't hear when a low voice said,"_Bonjour_."

My heart started beating doubletime. I twisted my head this way and that, looking for the source of the voice. I gasped when I saw that I was surrounded by several scruffy-looking men and a sharp-faced woman.

"Well, what have we here?" said one man tauntingly, looking at me like a cat about to devour a mouse.

"I have no money," I said quickly, trying to conceal my fear. "I am but a servant and carry only a few slices of bread."

"Are you sure, mademoiselle?" one of the men asked with a grin, fingering the dagger at his belt tauntingly.

I nodded forcefully, a lump in my throat. I was sure they could hear my heart banging against my chest.

"Give us your pack there," another man said. "I bet she's lying."

I threw it to the man closest to me. "She speaks the truth, 'tis only bread," he said quietly to his companions.

"Got any jewelry?"

I shook my head, and pushed back my cloak so he could see that I had no bracelets or rings.

"Nothing in the saddlebag?"

I produced the book the prince had given me and said, "Only this."

"What need have we for _books_?" one man scoffed. His ignorance annoyed me; I would have liked to have taught him about the importance of education, but after considering the tight fix I was in, I decided it would be best not to.

"It seems she has nothing," one man said softly. "Let's move on."

"Not so fast," the woman said in a loud, harsh voice. She examined me. She had a long face with angular features, and I was scared of her. "Look at her horse," she pronounced after a moment, with a cruel smirk. "Surely a _maid_ could not possess such a fine animal."

"I borrowed him, he's not mine," I tried, praying she would believe me.

The woman raised a sinister brow.

"I swear, he belongs to my employer," I continued fervently.

"Your employer? Do we know him?" said one of the men.

"Yes, have we robbed him?" cackled the woman.

"I work for the prince," I said.

Those words did it. They seemed to decide that I was not worth the risk.

"You're lucky, mademoiselle," the first man said, sounding more amused than bitter, "lucky we are such cowards. These woods are not safe. Not even for a servant of the prince."

"_Especially_ not for a servant of the prince," the woman said with her horrible sneer.

The first man motioned to his companions, and they left me, though the woman gave me a scowl as she skulked off.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I said softly to Diavolo, "Come on, boy, let's get to town."

We cantered the rest of the trail and after a nervous half hour were out of the woods. As my lunch had been stolen from me, a neat woodcutter's cottage at the edge of the forest was looking inviting.

I brought Diavolo to a halt and tied him to a fence in front of the house before approaching a woman bustling about the garden.

"Excuse me, Madame, but do you have a bit of food to spare for a poor traveler?" I asked.

The woman's eyes swept over me. "Yes," she said civilly, though not kindly.

We lunched at a strong wooden table in the main room of the cottage, joined by the woman's husband and their two children.

"Where do you come from?" asked the woodcutter, a broad man with a brown beard. "What business have you in town?" He took a bite of his stew but his eyes remained on me.

"I am a servant in the castle, sir," I replied, "and I believe I have family in town."

"You believe?" he repeated. "You do not know?"

I hesitated. "I am not sure, but I think I will find them there."

"And you have come all the way from the castle, alone?" his wife asked, sounding shocked.

I nodded, looking downward. "Yes, Madame."

She clucked at me reproachfully. "The forest is not safe for a young woman like you, it's a wonder you made it this far," she chided.

If only she knew, I thought.

"The forest is hardly safe for anyone," put in their daughter, a girl of about seven with enormous brown eyes, in a voice barely louder than a whisper.

"Anyone but Papa," boasted her brother, who was a year or two older. "Papa is the strongest man in the kingdom."

Their father chuckled jovially.

"They do love their Papa so," the woman said, the most tenderly I'd seen her yet.

"Thank you for the meal, it was wonderful," I said soon after, once I'd finished my lunch.

"Look at that horse!" the boy shouted upon seeing Diavolo. "You must be rich!"

"His name is Diavolo. I borrowed him," I explained kindly, though I was really thinking what a rude little boy he was.

"I believe you," whispered the little girl, taking my hand.

"Goodbye," I smiled at her. I squeezed her hand lightly and let go.

"Bye-bye!" she said softly.

"I hope you find your family," the woodcutter said to me as I mounted Diavolo. His wife nodded and I set off for town.

* * *

Hope you liked it. Please review! 


	10. The Reunion

Chapter Ten: The Reunion

"Excuse me," I said to a woman in the marketplace. "Do you know Georges Pierpont?"

She shook her head distractedly and complained loudly to a vendor that his wares cost too much.

"Thank you," I said, disappointed once again. I put a hand to my forehead wearily. I'd spent the last half hour in the town square, asking everyone I saw whether they knew Maman and Papa.

"Can you direct me to the home of Georges and Virginie Pierpont?" I tried again, asking an old man with long silver hair.

"I would if I knew them, my dear," he answered, patting me lightly on the shoulder.

I thanked him and led Diavolo to a trough; he was no doubt thirsty after our long ride.

"Oh, Diavolo," I said, stroking his neck unhappily as he drank, "what could have happened to them? Do you think they're all right?"

"Still talking to horses, I see, Cécile," someone said lightheartedly from behind me.

I whirled around.

"Sophie! Oh, I am _so _happy to see you!" I exclaimed, hugging my old friend for a full twenty seconds.

"Oh, Cécile, where have you _been_, I haven't seen in you in…why, it must be a whole year now!"

"Yes, not since the palace," I nodded, still grinning at her.

"And what are you _doing _here?"

"I came to see my parents," I said.

"Well how fortunate of you to have found _me_!" she laughed. "I'll take you to them, of course. But not yet." She linked arms with me and pulled me down a cobbled street. It took all my strength to pull Diavolo out of the trough while Sophie began her prattling. "Oh, how have you been, Cécile, look at you, you're so tall and lovely now! Your hair has gotten so dark, remember it used to be that terribly plain mouse-brown shade? But tell me, how is the castle? Don't they feed you there? Really, you're skin and bones! But so lovely! You quite put me to shame. How I envy you. But the castle, is it as pretty as they say it is? I hear the rose gardens are simply divine, is that true?"

There was so much to tell. But I answered simply, "Yes, I do like the castle, it's very old and beautiful. And the rose gardens are usually lovely, but those horrible rains rotted them all. And the prince has given me a month off to visit my family."

"How generous," Sophie said, looking slightly surprised. "A whole month for a maid." She eyed Diavolo.

My cheeks heated up. A month did seem like a long time for a mere housemaid, I realized suddenly. And what's more, the prince had lent me a magnificent horse like Diavolo. I changed the subject hastily. "Do you know where my parents are now?"

"Why, yes," she replied, "they moved into the cottage in the woods you used to live in, before you came to the palace. They come into town every few weeks," Sophie continued, "to get things in the marketplace and to visit Christophe and me."

"Christophe and you?" I asked in a gossipy, girlish voice.

She held her hand out to show me a simple gold ring. "We have been married for three months now," she said, blushing.

"Oh, Sophie, I am so happy for you!" I said sincerely, hugging her again. "Christophe is--"

"Completely wonderful," she finished. "Oh, I love him so much. Here, come with me, I was just heading home from buying some meat for dinner, see, here it is in my basket. You will stay with us tonight, you can't possibly consider going the cottage _now_. It is too late to venture so far."

"Thank you, I would love to stay with you," I replied with a smile. "So, Sophie, what else has gone on in my absence? How I've missed you all. How is your brother?"

"Well, so much has happened!" Sophie said, playing with a strand of blond hair. "Alain has gone, he is miles and miles away in a town I don't know the name of."

"What for?"

"He is off seeking his fortune there," she explained. "There is good land there, and he is a fine farmer. He sent us a lovely wedding present--it was a beautiful mirror, so delicate, it must've cost him _mountains _of gold--but anyway, that means he must be doing very well."

"Then I am happy for him, too," I said.

"Yes, I am so proud of him," Sophie babbled on. "I mean, I don't actually_ know _that he's farming, but what else would he be doing? But whatever it is, I'm sure he--oh, here we are!"

"Sophie?" rang out a man's voice from another room of the ordinary but cheerful house we had just stepped into.

"Christophe, I am home, and we have a guest!" Sophie called back.

"A guest, dear? Who is it?" Christophe came into the room and smiled at the sight of me. "Why, if it isn't Cécile Pierpont!"

"_Bonsoir_, Christophe," I said, as he pulled me into a friendly embrace. "And congratulations!"

Sophie giggled. "Cécile has a month off," she told him.

"Well, you're welcome to stay here if you'd like!" Christophe said. I had always liked Christophe, I thought with satisfaction. Handsome and lively, he was perfect for my friend.

"I thank you very much, but I would like to see my parents," I replied.

"But of course," Christophe said. "We'll take you to them in the morning. They're in that old cottage, it's not too far from here."

"And you can come back and visit when Alain comes!" Sophie cried. "He'll be here in a few weeks, you know."

"You forgot to tell me, Sophie!" I chided lightheartedly. "Of course I'll come back when he's here, I've not seen him in a whole year."

* * *

Two hours or so after we had set off from the house in town that morning, Christophe and I trotted into a clearing. I had been completely lost in my own thoughts. The sudden change of surroundings took me by surprise and I squinted in the bright light. 

My heart skipped a beat. There it was. The cottage. Looking as though I had never left it.

I surveyed it, my eyes tearing up a little. It still had the same off-white walls and thatched roof. I got off Diavolo and walked slowly around the yard, lightly touching old stumps and rocks full of memories. I half-expected Félix to come trotting out of the trees, poking around my pockets, looking for an apple.

Christophe knocked on the door, snapping me out of my reverie.

A moment later, it swung open with a squeak to reveal Maman standing there, wiping her brow.

"_Bonjour_,Chr--" she began before gasping. "Cécile!" she cried, running and hugging me. "Oh, how I've missed you!"

"I've missed you too, Maman," I said, holding her tightly.

"Cécile?" Papa said, coming outside as well. "Cécile, you're back!"

"Yes, I'm back!" I smiled, hugging him as well. "But only for a month."

Maman and Papa glanced at each other for a moment and I looked at them suspiciously.

"Well, a month is still a long time," Maman said smoothly before I could say anything, leading Christophe and me to the table.

"But where is Sophie?" Papa asked.

"Well I'm riding old Hugues," Christophe explained, gesturing to his horse, "and she couldn't well come without a horse of her own. But she does send her love."

"Dear Sophie," Maman said with a fond smile. "Well, who would like some lunch? You _must _eat something, Cécile, you're far too skinny."

* * *

After lunch, we said our goodbyes to Christophe and we went to sit outside in the warm afternoon sun. 

"So you did like it at the castle?" Papa asked.

"Oh, no, not at all," I said in a rush.

"What?" Maman said, looking worried. "You said it was lovely when Christophe was here!"

"I know, but I didn't want to worry him and Sophie. And the castle itself _is_ lovely. And anyway, it's all better now," I said.

"Oh?" Papa said.

"Yes, Madame Langlois was dismissed."

"Was she really?" Papa said excitedly, sitting up in his chair. "I've been waiting more than a decade for that woman to get what she deserves!"

"Georges!" Maman said admonishingly, though I could see a hint of a smile playing on her lips.

"She really was horrible, Maman," I said. "She made us work from dawn until _past _dusk, and we hardly ate when she was housekeeper--"

"You do look dreadfully thin, dear," Maman murmured uneasily.

"You should have seen me a month ago, I am fat as a pig now compared to what I was then! And what's more, once she made me--" I stopped abruptly. There was no need to worry Maman and Papa with my illness.

"Made you what, Cécile?" Papa said, raising a brow at me.

"Oh, nothing," I said, smiling lightly.

Papa did not seem convinced but he let the subject go.

"Did you hear?" I said quickly. "Alain's coming to stay with Sophie and Christophe in a few weeks!"

"Is he, dear?"

"Yes, may I go stay with them all when he comes?"

"Of course," Maman said with a smile. Papa shot her a look and she repeated decisively, more to him than to me, "Yes, you should go, Cécile, I think it would be a very good thing."

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

"Wrong? Oh no, Cécile dear, nothing at all," Maman said with an unreassuringly pleasant smile.

Papa threw his hands up and walked inside. He gave a loud cough and I looked worriedly at Maman.

"How is Papa?" I asked.

"Oh, don't worry about him, dear," she comforted me, "he loves it out here. The fresh air is so good for him."

I frowned. Papa wouldn't be so sick if he hadn't worked so hard at the palace. I swallowed hard. I felt so guilty about my friendship with the prince.


	11. Change

Chapter Eleven: Change

"Cécile! You're back!" Sophie squealed a few weeks later, pulling me in the house.

But I barely noticed her. I was looking excitedly around the room. My breath caught as I saw Alain reclining in a chair before me, chatting casually with Christophe.

"Alain!" I screamed, doing a very good imitation of Sophie.

"Cécile!" he said, giving me an uncharacteristic sort of smile, almost a smirk, where he normally would have grinned broadly. I did my best to repress a look of puzzlement as he asked, "How was the castle?"

"It was very nice," I replied.

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure? I thought our honorable prince would have his servants working like animals," he said wryly. "He always did when _we_ worked there."

Sophie and Christophe added a few words of agreement but I frowned slightly. Alain would never say something like that. Had he changed that much in a year? But I went on, "It's about the same as it's always been. And where have you been?"

"Oh, all over," he said nonchalantly.

Another strange answer! What's happened to Alain? I thought incredulously. He was outgoing and confident and relaxed. He even looked different--his brown eyes had a new glint to them, his skin was tanned, he was taller and more muscular than he had been the year before. He looked better than ever. I was a little perplexed, but I tried to act as though nothing was amiss. "All over?" I answered. "Doing what?"

"Alain's been sailing!" Sophie piped in proudly. "Isn't it marvelous?"

"Sailing!" I repeated with surprise.

"In King Philippe's navy? Isn't that what you said?" Sophie asked. King Philippe? He had gone to the next kingdom? Was that how bad things had gotten?

"King Philippe's navy?" Alain said. "_Mon dieu_, Sophie, no. I'm on a merchant ship, under the ablest captain in the seven seas." He stretched and put his hands behind his head.

I sat down next to him. "A merchant ship, that sounds exciting."

"It is," he said with a very handsome smile. "And it pays well." He eyed me with what appeared to be amusement. "You've certainly changed, Cécile."

I barely suppressed a disbelieving scoff. I, changed? Had he looked in a mirror lately? "Really? How so?" I played along.

"For one thing, you're no fun anymore," he grinned. "Look at you, so serious!"

Sophie and Christophe laughed aloud, and I blushed. "Well, I have had plenty to do at the castle," I said vaguely, suddenly feeling very solemn and boring. Then I looked up with new resolution and said, "But I'm away now, so let's do something!"

"Yes, let's," Alain said with a smile, looking more like his old self. We stood up, leaving Sophie and Christophe.

"Since when do you know how to sail?" I teased as we walked outside.

"Cécile, I am a wonderful sailor," he said smoothly. "It's really a pity I wasted so much of my youth in the garden."

"Wasted?" I echoed, slightly offended. "Surely you don't believe you wasted those years?"

"Well, apart from the time I spent with you," he said with a suave smile.

I giggled. It wasn't exactly the Alain I remembered, but I did prefer him to the Alain in the house.

"We did have fun together, didn't we?" he said.

I nodded and blushed. Alain had gotten so handsome.

"You're different, too," I said suddenly.

"Am I?" he smiled at no one in particular.

"Yes," I told him. "Very different." I flushed again. That hadn't come out the way I wanted it to. I hoped he didn't think I was insulting him. "I missed you," I finished lamely, my cheeks flaming.

He didn't say anything. Then he turned to me. "Cécile--"

"Yes?" I said with interest, looking up into his face.

He paused. "Nothing," he smirked, looking away.

"Oh," I replied with disappointment. What I had expected him to say, who knew.

* * *

Before I knew it, my week with Alain was almost up. I felt like we had never been better friends, somehow, not even in the old days at the palace, when we were children and spent all our free time together. Now I looked for him every waking moment. We ate together, we walked together, we were constantly talking and joking. He was different from the old Alain, it was true. But it was a good sort of different, I had decided. A more interesting Alain. 

"We have gone to the docks everyday, ridden all over town, picnicked everywhere possible," I said the night before I was to leave, counting off on my fingers. "What else is left to do in a small town like this?"

Alain smiled, stretching out on the grass where we sat. "_La fôret_," he said.

"The forest?" I repeated. "I almost got robbed in there. And it's going to be dark soon."

"I'll protect you," he smirked.

I blushed. I simply couldn't say no to him. "All right," I said with slight hesitation.

* * *

"I've got something to tell you," Alain said awhile later. "I don't sail on a merchant ship." He pushed back a branch and we went deeper into the wood. 

"You don't?" I said, stepping over a little creek that I could still hear babbling, even though I could scarcely see it in the fading evening light.

"No," I could practically hear him smile.

I suddenly wanted to go back to Sophie and Christophe's house. "What sort of ship do you sail on, then?" I asked cautiously, after a few moments' pause.

He didn't answer, merely heading further into the trees, into the darkness. We kept walking for a few minutes before I heard him say, "Let's sit down."

I was very frightened now. There were eerie noises surrounding me. I could barely see a thing and Alain was making me nervous. "Alain, perhaps we should go back--" I began, trying to make my voice sound as though nothing was wrong.

I heard the sound of a match being lit and saw Alain's face in front of me. It was comforting.

"Everything will be all right," he said quietly, smiling in a way that reminded me of the boy in the royal stables I had known over a year ago. He stepped closer to me and said, "Do you know what?"

"What?" I answered, feeling like my cheeks were on fire.

"Right now, you look exactly like the Cécile I remember."

I looked down uncomfortably.

Alain took my hand. "Watch," he said, and in the light of the match I saw an excited glint in his brown eyes. He put two fingers to his mouth and let out a low whistle.

A moment passed.

I looked up at Alain.

"Wait," he said softly.

Sure enough, a few seconds later, someone whistled back. Alain grinned at me. "This way," he said, pulling me in the direction the sound had come from.

"_Bonsoir!_" Alain called.

The eight or so people around the fire looked up and replied with hearty words of welcome.

"Who are these people?" I whispered to Alain.

"My friends and colleagues," he said back to me, smiling a perfect smile. "This is Cécile."

They went around, introducing themselves to me with the chivalry of great lords. I still didn't know who they were, or why they were camped out in the forest, but they seemed like decent people.

"Girard!" one man called. "How went things with your sister?"

"Yes, how is it in town?" another put in.

"And where did you pick up this lovely girl?"

I blushed. Alain took a swig from a pewter mug that had just been thrust at him and said, "She is an old friend." He beamed at me then turned to one of the men. "_Un peu de musique, s'il vous plaît," _he cried, and one of the men grinned and brought out a fife and the rest began to sing along with him.

"Care to dance?" Alain said in a charming voice, offering me his hand. I grinned and took it.

* * *

"So what do you think of my men?" Alain said many dances later, walking slowly away from the campsite with me. 

"Your men?" I said. "Are you their leader?"

"Of course," he said, looking somewhat surprised that I had to ask.

"Well, what is it that you lead them to do?" I asked.

"We're bandits," he replied simply.

"Bandits?"

"Yes, of course, what did you think?" he said quizzically.

I was stunned. Alain, a thief?

"My, Cécile, you are slow," he said, grinning at my expression of utter astonishment.

"I thought you were a sailor!" I managed to get out.

"I was," he replied. "I sailed on a merchant ship for a few months. But I preferred this. Always an adventure."

I stared at him, and he stared back at me. I didn't know what to think. Part of me was disgusted at the change from the old Alain, my Alain. And yet another part of me was impressed by his newfound courage and teasing manner. I felt my face heat up. He was also terribly handsome.

He took my hands and we kept staring at each other, perhaps for a minute and perhaps for ten. We were very close. He leaned in and planted a single kiss on my lips.

We broke apart and looked at each other again. I searched his face, not really knowing what I was looking for, but his eyes were unreadable.

He began kissing me again, more passionately, and I let him before I suddenly realized that it wasn't what I wanted. He pulled at the strings holding my dress on and I pushed him away with disgust.

"Stop it, Alain, you're drunk," I said, wishing rather than knowing it to be so.

"I'm not," he said. "I'm just different from who you thought I was."

"I know you are, and I liked the old Alain better," I replied, almost hurt. "Don't you understand that?"

His brown eyes turned hard and he pulled further away from me. "Why don't I understand?" he repeated. "I'll tell you why I don't understand. Because the old Alain was completely in love with you. I loved you, Cécile! But it didn't mean anything to you. You were far too spirited, I told myself. And I was boring. I convinced myself that _I _was the problem, that _I _needed to be changed, because you were too good for me."

Tears welled up in my eyes. But he wasn't finished.

"So I _did_ change. I went off to sea and I came back here and now I'm a completely different person. I wanted to be a better man, someone you would love. I came back and I thought everything I'd done for you had worked. But I guess it wasn't good enough. I'm not good enough. Not for you, Cécile. No one's _ever _going to be good enough for you."

He stood, gazing at me with a look of revulsion. Then he spat bitterly at my feet and left.

I was sobbing quietly now. Because he was absolutely right.


	12. Misery

Chapter Twelve: Misery

Somehow, the dull sound of Diavolo's hooves on the forest path captured my horrible mood exactly. And was it my imagination, or were the crickets whispering foul names in my ear?

I hadn't stopped to say goodbye to Sophie and Christophe, merely grabbing my belongings and leaving the house. I had been riding through the night, and the sun was beginning to show. I drew my hood over my eyes so it covered the few rays peeking through the trees. They were giving me a headache.

I couldn't believe I had thought the things I had thought about Alain. I wasn't certain, but I may have believed myself in love with him. In love! With that monster! Although I did know exactly what I had seen in him. He was so handsome, so charming, so fearless--so different.

Different. Yes, he was unquestionably different. I was shocked he had had the courage to say all the things he had said to me. How dare he? half of me would think. But the other half would reply tauntingly, But he's absolutely right.

And he was right. I had always thought I was better than just a servant, better than the palace and the castle and Margaux and Sophie and Alain. I had even thought I was too good to have just a normal horse--I had _had _to have Diavolo. I looked down at him. His coat wasn't shining as brightly as it usually did; I had been neglecting him with all the excitement of seeing Alain. I didn't deserve the beautiful stallion. Did I deserve anything I had?

What imagined qualities did I possess, what prides justified my thoughts and actions? How could I think myself superior to another human being? What right had I to judge people the way I did? Why did I always feel myself above my company? Did I think myself more intelligent, more courageous, more important than they were? Why had I entertained the fantasy that I was a more complex person, a more refined version of my fellow servants? What led me to think that? How could I have been so blind? What had Sophie ever done to me, apart from show me kindness at the palace and in her home years later? And why, in the first place, had I ever dreamt of marrying better than my best friend? Didn't he know and love me best of anyone? What spiteful god of conceit and delusion had given me the idea to reject him? Because who else would have me, if not Alain? What other hope had I in the world that I would ever find someone as kind and true and loving as he?

His last words to me rang in my head. _No one will_ ever _be good enough for you, Cécile._

_No one will _ever_ be good enough for you._

The impact of his words, their cold, undisputable truth, stung me.

I had only begun to like Alain as more than a friend when he seemed, well, more interesting. Alain the servant had been far too dull and ignorant. Now that he was more worldly and attractive I had finally allowed him to know me in a different way.

And now he was gone forever. I had absolutely no expectation of ever seeing him again, and I wasn't sure if I minded this or not. Of course I was angry with him. I was furious. But I somehow felt that if I saw him again, I would start sobbing rather than screaming at him. The thought of Alain was as painful as it was infuriating.

Who did I have left in the world? Maman and Papa, they were the only ones.

But how would they be able to stand me? How had _anyone _been able to stand me? I couldn't even stand myself.

* * *

The next few days, I wandered listlessly around the house, absently performing chores, pretending to read while I actually thought about other things. Or, more often, nothing at all. I kept vowing I would stop thinking of Alain, only to hear his words in my head a moment later. 

When I wasn't at home, I was riding through the forest, or simply sitting on the ground in the middle of the woods, counting down the days until I could resume my position at the castle. I had never been so anxious to leave home. I wanted to get away from all of my problems. If I had revealed the reason behind my impatience to leave, Papa would have told me that I couldn't simply run away from what was troubling me. He would have said, in his most philosophical voice, that I had to stand and face it. But I didn't care. The thought of my simple life as a maid was the only thing keeping me going. At the castle, the most trying moment of my day would be when I had to carry a heavy bucket of soapy water up three flights of stairs. I wanted to worry only about a stubborn stain on a shirt and fingerprints on a windowpane. Three days seemed like a terribly long time.

"He was completely right," I murmured to Diavolo after one of our rides. I had been brushing him for nearly twenty minutes and nothing had come of it. It looked as though he had been rolling in the dirt, but I knew that wasn't right. Diavolo thought he was a prince--he never went anywhere he didn't think was perfectly clean. He knew his coat was beautiful and he didn't want to risk dirtying it. He was no better than a peacock, but I loved him for it.

I exhaled deeply. "What do you think of me, Diavolo?" I asked the horse quietly. "I'm a terrible snob, aren't I."

I looked into his dark eyes, but they showed nothing. What had I expected? He was a horse. Just a horse. He poked at my pocket with his nose.

"No, I haven't any carrots for you," I sighed. I ran my fingers through his mane and he shook his head a little as though he wanted me to stop. "Fine, then. I suppose that's all I'm good for, isn't it. You only like me because I bring you treats, not because I ride you and talk to you and brush you everyday."

I threw the brush down and left Diavolo standing where he was next to a pine tree. I hoped the sap would fall on him and dirty his precious ebony coat even more.

How stupid, I scolded myself a moment later, and I turned around. How stupid to have my feelings hurt by a horse.

* * *

"She hasn't eaten a thing since she came home," Maman said in hushed tones to Papa, one night as I lay in bed. I hadn't slept since I had been at Sophie's. 

I had to admit that I had been wondering when they'd have this conversation. Nothing escaped Maman's watchful eye.

"A little starvation is always good for a girl," Papa replied. I couldn't tell from his voice whether or not he was joking.

"Georges," Maman said with a tone of reproach. "I'm worried about her. I know she's upset about something, but I can't tell what. Something must have gone wrong with Sophie and Alain."

I smiled to myself. Yes, something had gone wrong with Sophie and Alain. Not with Sophie, just Alain. But I probably wouldn't be able to see Sophie ever again either.

"My money's on Sophie," Papa grumbled. "She's always been a stupid girl." No, she's not, I wanted to protest. Sophie was the kind member of the Girard family. And she wasn't even a Girard anymore.

"Oh dear," Maman sighed. "I do hope it's nothing serious."

Oh, no, it wasn't serious in the slightest, I thought, rolling my eyes.

"They're young," Papa said. "I'm sure it's perfectly ridiculous."

"I don't know," Maman replied. The crackling fire and the furious clicking of Maman's knitting needles was all I heard for a few moments.

"Well, whatever's the matter, she'd best get over it," Papa said after a moment. "He'll be coming soon."

Now rather curious, I swung my feet quietly to the freezing ground and crept to the door. He'll be coming soon? Who was "he"? I strained to hear what Maman said next.

"Oh, but do you still think it's a good idea, Georges?" she asked with urgency. "Particularly if she is so unhappy?"

"I don't know what I think anymore," Papa replied wearily. "The man has made up his mind, we cannot unmake it for him. We simply _cannot _say no, Virginie."

I sat up. They could not say no? Who was this man, and what did he want? And what did I have to do with it?

* * *


	13. The Choice

Chapter Thirteen: The Choice

The mysterious man occupied my thoughts all that night, and the next morning. I had nothing much else to think about, anyway.

It couldn't possibly be Alain. Papa and Maman would not refer to him as a man. They still thought of him as only a boy, just as I had. And besides, how would he have sent word to them?

Maybe it was the prince. He certainly was someone to whom Maman and Papa couldn't refuse anything. But what would he want with me? I was going back to the castle soon enough anyway. But perhaps it was terribly urgent. Had something happened? Perhaps he meant to dismiss me like he had dismissed my parents. They would have spoken of him more bitterly, though. I knew well enough that Papa did not think very highly of the prince.

But what other men did I know?

* * *

It was only the day after I'd overheard Maman and Papa's conversation that I found out who the man was. 

I had gone out for another ride through the forest and was just coming back when I noticed a regal-looking chestnut mare outside of our cottage. Truth be told, Diavolo noticed her first.

"Come away from her," I scolded him, pulling on his halter, though my headstrong stallion simply would have none of it. Finally I was able to drag him away and tied him to a tree.

"I'm sorry," I told the mare, presenting her with a carrot. Diavolo whinnied loudly behind me, wanting some of the spoils, but I ignored him. The gleaming mare gladly accepted my offer and crunched the carrot loudly as I stroked her forelock.

"You're a sweet thing, aren't you? Not afraid of me at all," I cooed.

"Cécile!" Maman called from behind me.

I looked over my shoulder to see her standing at the door, beckoning me toward her.

"Come in here, Cécile," she said with a hurried tone. "There's someone who would like to meet you."

The owner of the majestic mare I had just fed, no doubt. I stared at my mother, bewildered. "Who would want to see me?"

"Just get inside, Cécile!" she whispered threateningly.

"Maman!" I hissed back. "My dress is all dirty, I've been out in the forest for the past hour. I probably smell like a horse!"

She hurried out to pull me by the hand. "Oh, don't worry, dear," she said more gently, tucking a lock of my hair behind my ear.

I heard the swish of a cloak and a dark-haired man stood up as we entered the room. He had an aura of majesty about him, but he was most certainly not the prince.

"This is Comte Levesque," Maman said. "Comte Levesque, this is Cécile."

The man smiled at me and nervously brushed a strand of graying hair back. I looked at Papa, who gestured at the count as if to say, "Where are your manners?"

"_Bonjour, monseigneur_," I said, still slightly confused. "How do you do?"

"Very well, thank you, Cécile," he replied in a softer voice than I had expected. "May I speak with you?"

"_Bien sûr,_" I replied with surprise, "of course you may. Please, sit down."

Maman and Papa left slowly, looking unhappy. I wiped self-consciously at a mud stain on my skirt, hoping the count wouldn't notice it.

"May I offer you something to eat,_ monsieur_?" I asked. "Or perhaps some water? I'm sure you have come a long way."

"Oh, no, no, thank you, Cécile," he said politely but with obvious agitation.

We sat in silence for a moment. I noticed that he was not clad in the sumptuous fashions of the nobles, instead wearing a somber uniform of plain black. He played fretfully with his hat, its feather being the brightest point of his whole appearance, and his eyes darted about the room.

Finally he said, "I noticed you talking to my horse."

I blushed. "I'm so sorry, I know I shouldn't have," I said.

"No, no, it's perfectly all right," he replied with a bemused smile. "Do you like horses?"

"Yes, I love them," I responded.

He paused. "I have many horses, but no one to ride them," he said with a slight grin, "at my home, le château des Lions. Are you acquainted with it? It is not too great a distance from here."

"I beg your pardon, _monseigneur_, I am not--I spent only a few years of my childhood in this cottage."

He nodded then said, with a hint of embarrassment, "Please, you needn't call me _monseigneur_."

How rude not to acknowledge his social superiority, I thought with a slight frown.

"I'm terribly sorry, I didn't mean to cause offense," he muttered, probably noticing my face.

"No, not at all," I replied quickly. "How would you wish me to address you?

"Call me…well, never mind," he mumbled, looking down. He looked distractedly around the room again before saying, "I know you may be too old for stories now, but may I tell you one now?"

"Of course," I said amicably, trying to hide my utter confusion.

"_Il était une fois_," he began--once upon a time--"an idle young noble met a wonderful woman named Mariette. She was strong and intelligent and beautiful, and he fell in love with her." He gazed at me with a terrible sadness in his blue eyes. "And they were married and it was the happiest day of his life. And soon they were to have a baby. Everything was going perfectly. And then one day, they went out riding in the woods. She was an expert rider. And they were having a wonderful time, when the--" He stopped, blinked back tears, and took a deep breath. I tried to give him a reassuring expression but he wouldn't look at me. "The countess' horse was spooked by a snake and she was bucked off. They ran into a cottage and she had the child right then." He paused again. "But she just wasn't strong enough, I suppose."

"She died in childbirth?" I asked softly.

He nodded again, heaving a sigh. "And foolishly, the count refused to take the baby," he said with crazed misery. "To him, she was just a reminder of Mariette, so he made the owners of the cottage keep her. They raised her as their own."

"I'm so sorry," I said immediately, moving to touch his hand sympathetically. Then suddenly something clicked.

I gasped and pulled my hand back. "Do you mean--" I breathed.

He looked at me, his eyes shining. "_Oui_."

I stared at him. "That's not--that can't be," I spluttered. "_C'est impossible_." It couldn't be true. This man, my--my _father_? No, I must have had it all wrong.

"Cécile, you are so much like your mother, if you only knew," he said with a melancholy smile. He reached for my hand, but I pulled it away with a look of horror.

I shook my head vigorously. "You are my _father_?"

His look was an unspoken answer in the affirmative. "You can't imagine how proud I am," he said, "that my daughter has become such a beautiful young lady."

I seemed to have lost the ability to speak.

He continued, "I know this is a shock for you."

A shock? That was an understatement!

"Please, Cécile, will you come live with me?"

I blinked several times--this was not a dream. His question snapped out of my state of awe.

"Live with you?" I repeated incredulously. "_Monsi--_oh, I mean--well, I-I don't--" I stuttered, realizing that I was being horribly rude but unable to change my tone.

"I understand that this is rather alarming for you," he said, giving me a hard, meaningful stare. "And you barely even know me. But I hope you will consider it. Because I finally realized that I have been missing my daughter all these years."

He smiled sadly at me, patting my hand. I knew from his melancholy gaze that he was picturing his beloved wife--my mother.

"Oh, I don't know," I said.

He closed his eyes and nodded several times.

But I couldn't break his heart that way. "Won't you stay for dinner?" I asked hastily.

He smiled. "Why, thank you, Cécile. I'd like that very much."

* * *

"Maman, whatever shall I do?" I asked after he had left. 

"Cécile, I shan't say a word. This is a decision you must make on your own."

"But Maman," I whined. "I don't know him at all. How can I go live with him?"

"Then you've made your choice?" she said pointedly, knitting needles clicking.

"Well, no," I said slowly. "I couldn't do that to him, he…he's lost his wife, and he seems so kind." I let out a loud breath. "Oh, why is life so difficult?"

Suddenly I had an idea. "Why can't you come with me? I'm sure he would understand."

"Oh, child, it isn't proper," Maman replied.

My shoulders slumped.

"Cécile," Maman said gently, taking my hand and squeezing it lightly, "this won't be an easy decision to make, but I trust that you will make the right one."

Papa looked at me over his paper. "His manor is not so far from here, anyway, perhaps an hour's ride. Much less on that racehorse of yours. You can visit any time you like."

I traipsed over to my small bedroom and lay down on my bed. The count--my father, that is--would return in the morning.

I sighed loudly to no one. Could I possibly go to live with him? I had to admit I was curious. My life was completely different, my parents were not who I thought they were. My mother--what had she looked like? Did I really resemble her so very much? What sort of woman had she been? What mysteries lay in my past, waiting to be uncovered?

But could I leave the comfort and safety of the cottage and Maman and Papa? I would never again be able to sit around our little hearth in the evening, with Maman knitting and Papa smoking his pipe. Instead I would--well, what would I do? It was a wonder that after all my years of serving a prince, I had no idea what the wealthy did in the time between eating dinner and retiring for the night. Whatever it was, though, it was probably not nearly as cozy as reading an old book by the glow of our fire.

Of course, if my father were a count, it wouldn't have to be an old book. I'd have a grand library, full of volumes upon volumes that I'd never read, more books than I could probably read in a lifetime. And I would never have to work again if I were the daughter of an aristocrat. I could sit about all day long in fancy clothes, eating delicacies and sticking my nose up.

Alain's words suddenly came back to me and I felt almost sick.

Although I wasn't sure I'd enjoy that life. Surely I'd still be able to take a ride through the forest with Diavolo? Would someone scold me for sitting on the dirt in my expensive gowns? It also meant that I would never see anyone from the castle again--Élisabeth, Hélène, or any of the other servants.

But how could I deny the count his daughter? I could see his pain; he missed my mother more than he could express. I was his only living reminder of her. And he seemed like a kind, generous man. Perhaps I could learn to love him as much as I loved Papa.

How awkward it would be, though, living with the count. I didn't know how to be a noble, and I certainly didn't know him very well.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

The next day, when the count rode up on his chestnut mare, I was at the door to greet him. It had been a sleepless night, but I had finally made my choice. 

"Whoa, Aurore," he said, and the horse trotted to a stop.

"Bonjour, Cécile," he smiled at me.

"Bonjour," I said. Just say it, I told myself. Then there will be no going back. I took a deep breath and announced, "I've come to a decision." My voice sounded strange, distant, not like my own. But I could not take back what I had said--now I had to tell him.

He did not say anything, but looked at me with expectation.

"I--I would like very much, to come live with you." I paused, then added, "Father."


	14. The Count's Daughter Again

To err is human, my friends, and I am certainly human. I had to take this chapter down because I made a big mistake that would come back to haunt me. I'm glad I realized it so soon. So if you've read the chapter already, forget everything. If you haven't yet, lucky you.

Now, on to the chapter! I believe it was my friend Celestial Seraphim (correct me if I've not given credit where it's due) who noted that if you are going to write a story about a servant girl turning into a lady, it is necessary to depict a scene in which that servant girl cleans herself up. Everyone does. Which is normally not a good reason to do things. But I like tradition. So here goes.

* * *

Chapter Fourteen: The Count's Daughter Again

I closed my eyes, breathing in the hot, perfumed air that engulfed me. There were rose petals strewn about in my steaming bathwater. I had never enjoyed such luxury. A maid—I had my own _maid_—waited upon me. She had just finished helping me wash my hair and scrub my skin until it shone as it never had before.

It was terribly awkward, though, being served like this. I was too ashamed to ask her for anything because I knew that with every "Of course, my lady," my maid Lucie was in reality thinking how lazy I was, how I could easily do all of this myself. She was right, of course. But my father explained to me that this was not the point. The daughter of a count would have a maid. There was no question here.

There was an element of austerity to my new life. Father wanted me to be a lady, a daughter he could be proud of. Now that I was supposed to be an aristocrat, certain things were expected of me. I must not go_anywhere _unescorted. My early morning rides were out of the question (and if I were to take one, Heaven forbid my doing so riding astride). I must take care to look the part of a wealthy count's daughter, even when no one was around. I must not speak out of turn. The most difficult of my new obligations was adopting the mindset that I was inherently superior to everyone without a title. It pained me to hold my tongue when his friends spoke of peasants as annoyances and parasites. _I_ was a peasant. Who was I to say that I was better than they were?

Father kept apologizing, saying that he had no idea how to raise a daughter and that he knew I must be uncomfortable. He was so eager to please me, overwhelming me with gifts when all I wanted was simplicity. But I hadn't come to live with him because I wanted expensive gowns and jewelry. I had come because we were family. Father knew how much I missed Maman and Papa and my friends from the castle. He had even offered to buy Diavolo and bring him here, to make me feel more at home, but I could not accept his offer. It would have made me feel worse, probably. But it was obvious that he was trying so hard to make me love and trust him.

Even though he was so generous and only wanted the best for me in society, my father still seemed somewhat aloof. Was I upsetting his routine? I tried to tell myself that he _wanted_me there, or else he would never have asked me to live with him, but I could not shake the feeling that I was a constant interruption. I felt sometimes like he was buying me gifts so that I would stop bothering him, as a parent buys a toy to busy a needy child. I disturbed his business meetings and walked into his study whenever he wanted to be alone, which seemed to me to be fairly often. Father's work habits were mysterious, almost to the point of being stealthy. He had guests at odd times of night, was constantly scribbling at his desk. Messengers were always coming and going from our house. I had had no idea how difficult it was to manage an estate.

I let out a sigh. This still didn't feel _right._ And I couldn't think of anyway to make it feel so. It wasn't as though life with Father was unbearable. He loved to read and take walks and ride as I did, and he loved _me_. But it was uncomfortable and I was terribly self-conscious. I had begun a new life filled with maids and hot baths, needlework and refinement. And Father. I so wanted him to be proud of me but it was hard to act the way I was supposed to. And where was my dear Papa? And Maman?

I sat in my bath, scooping up the water and letting it trickle out through my fingers, a little at a time.

"_Grain production is up, your highness, and in high demand overseas," says a graying official, modestly dressed. "Our markets are booming, and more gold is coming in than has in the past ten years together."_

"_Excellent," Prince Étienne replies slowly. __He sits back on the sofa and sighs. "Thank you very much, Robert," he says quietly._

"_It is my pleasure. I must say, sire, your new plan has brought our small kingdom much success. You should be very proud." He pauses, then adds, smiling, "Or pleased, at the least."_

_The prince does not return the smile. He closes his eyes and gives an expression that almost resembles contentment, but not quite. It is more like relief. He is not happy. Something nags at him._

"_I am pleased that my people are more prosperous," he says after a moment._

"_What troubles you, sire?" Robert asks gently._

_A knock at the door spares the prince from answering. Opening his eyes, he calls, "Come in."_

_An older maid enters, carrying a tea tray._

"_Joceline, should not you be performing your usual duties?" the prince asks._

"_We're short a maid just now, sire," Joceline replies, setting out a teacup for the prince and his advisor. "Madame Tessier is still looking for a new one."_

"_Has someone left us?"_

"_Why, yes, your highness," Joceline says as she pours tea for each man. "A letter came a few days ago from Cécile Pierpont."_

_The color drains from the prince's face. "Does no one care to tell me what goes on in my own home?" he thunders._

"_I beg your pardon, highness," Joceline says quickly. "Madame Tessier did not think it necessary to trouble you over a housemaid's resignation."_

_The prince exhales softly. "Go," he mutters to Joceline. She curtsies and leaves, and is followed by Robert._

_Alone in the dark room, he sits in silence for a moment, seething. Then he give a shout. "Damn!"_

I awoke with a start. I was still in the bath, though my skin had long since turned wrinkled. The water was still warm, though. Lucie was probably behind that.

I picked up a rose petal and played with it between my first two fingers. I had never dreamt of the prince before. And I couldn't recall ever having had so vivid a dream. It had been as though I was next to him, in his study where I had so often taken him tea.

I had been unsure of how to tell everyone at the castle (especially the prince) that I would not be coming back to work there. I was certain, though, that I should not say _why_. Finally I wrote a line or two saying that I was sorry but I would have to give up my post. I addressed it specifically to Madame Tessier and included nothing about the count and my newly-discovered nobility.

I had worried that perhaps the news would get to the prince anyway, but Father had kept my arrival fairly confidential. I was kept largely out of the public eye, which wasn't difficult, given our house's remoteness. And if it came to it, we had even talked of covering up my long absence with a story about finishing school, to be used only if absolutely necessary.

I shivered suddenly. I was freezing.

* * *

"Cécile, I have a surprise for you," Father smiled.

"A surprise?" I said, putting down the book I was reading. I would have groaned had I not been so afraid of hurting his feelings. I knew that it was going to be something proper and boring.

He merely smiled, leading me into the next room. There I saw an object nearly as tall as I, covered in lovely purple fabric. Father pulled off the satiny cloth to reveal a perfect golden harp.

My breath caught, in spite of all I had thought. "Oh, it is beautiful," I breathed.

The light of Heaven seemed to shine upon the unwanted gift. I extended a hand gently. Would I break its delicate strings?

"Do you like it?" he asked eagerly.

"I love it," I responded untruthfully. It was beautiful, but I did not want to be forced to learn to play it. I knew it was only another effort to further refine me. "But you didn't have to do this."

"Nonsense, darling," he replied, patting my cheek. "I've missed out on nineteen years of buying you gifts." We laughed together.

"I am afraid I don't know how to play," I told him.

"Fear not, my dear," Father said with alacrity, "I have already hired you a teacher."

"Oh, Father, how wonderful," I lied. "Although I probably won't be very good. I think I lack the dedication and the focus such an instrument must take."

"I'm sure you will be an excellent harpist. Your tutor tells me that you are a bright student and Madame Rémy is always speaking of your…er, determination."

I laughed lightly at his embellishment of the truth. "My determination," I repeated with a grin. "Oh, Father. Madame Rémy is so kind to put up with me. I am terrible at stitching and singing and remembering the proper behavior for the dinner table."

It was true; my sewing was abominable and I almost always spilled something. But manners and propriety and that sort of nonsense simply bored me. I would have much rather have spent all my time with my tutor, a former schoolteacher. Geography and literature were far more interesting to me than were ladylike pastimes and fashion.

"Those things will come, Cécile. You have the natural grace your mother had." He gazed at me proudly.

I smiled at him. I knew that telling me that I was like my mother was the most generous compliment he could give. "Thank you, Father."

* * *

"Another surprise, Father?" I said with incredulity. "I've told you that this is—"

"Fine, Cécile, this is the last one," he told me, laughing.

"Do you promise it?" I asked.

"I promise," he said.

"All right," I said reluctantly, "if you are _certain_ that this is the last one."

He smiled and continued eating.

I hesitantly said after a moment, "Are you not going to show it to me?"

"No, not at the moment," he said. "You see, I do not have control over this surprise. It is different from the harp and that dress."

"Oh?" I asked with puzzlement.

"Yes," he said pleasantly. After another bite of his dinner, he said, "But it should be here soon enough."

We finished our meal and moved to the room in which we normally relaxed in the evenings. I had been reading a novel, and Father his newspaper, for about ten minutes when there was a knock at the door.

"Yes, come in," called Father. I looked at him and he smiled mischievously back at me.

The door opened to reveal a young man I didn't recognize.

"Monsieur Desmarais!" said Father.

* * *

So that was that. Much better than before, though you all don't really know why yet. 

Also, while I'm in the long-author's-note mindset, I'd like to have a little pronounciation lesson because it recently occurred to me that many of you probably have no idea to pronounce half of the names in my story. The entire world does not take French, it seems. So a few pointers: don't say "h" when it starts the word, "g"s are soft (like the "s" in "vision," usually written as "zh"), and don't pronounce "n"s at the very end of a word. Here's a few people of significance or who are in this chapter:

Cécile: say-seel

Maman: ma-maw

Georges Pierpont: zhorzh peer-poh

Alain Girard: al-eh (just a short "e") zhee-rar

Étienne: ay-tien

Madame Langlois: mah-dahm longlwah

Madame Tessier: mah-dahm tess-ee-ay

Robert: roh-bare

Alexandre Desmarais: alexandruh day-maray (you don't really know him yet, but you will!)

All right, thanks for reading! Review,_ s'il vous plaît!_


	15. The Visitor

Chapter Fifteen: The Visitor

"Please, sir, call me Alexandre," said the man amiably. He was tall and muscular, with clear blue eyes and brown hair. He was very handsome, and I got the feeling he knew it. He reminded me irresistibly of someone I'd vowed I'd never think of again. I was suddenly overtaken by a wave of disgust, followed by an equally powerful pang of homesickness.

My father smiled. It was clear he was already quite taken with this man. "Very well, Alexandre. Well, how is your father the duke? I have not seen him since, why, since the old days when we used to hunt together in the wood near your home. It has been such a long time!"

"Yes, far too long," agreed Alexandre. He was lying, I knew. "But pray, sir, do introduce me to this lovely young woman."

"Of course, of course," Father said gaily. "This is my daughter Cécile. Cécile, this is the son of an old friend of mine, the duke Desmarais."

"I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, sir," I said, trying to hide my disdain.

"The pleasure is entirely mine, Mademoiselle," Alexandre said, taking my hand and kissing it gallantly, "to meet such a beautiful lady. Why have we not met before?"

"Oh, Cécile was much too young to travel with me in those days," Father explained.

I nodded, happy he had invented such a credible excuse.

"Although she does ride very well," Father added hastily. "She probably could have accompanied us, even then."

"Indeed?" said Alexandre. "Riding is probably my favorite thing in the world."

"There is nothing I love better, monsieur," I said.

"Then I look forward to a ride with you. But you are all so formal around here! Please call me Alexandre. Think of me as an old friend."

I knew he wanted me to ask him to call me Cécile, and that was precisely why I wouldn't do it. "Well, my old friend," I said, smiling as best as I could, "would you care for some tea?"

* * *

"What do you think of Alexandre?" Father whispered excitedly the next day. "Very handsome, is he not?" 

I looked over at Alexandre, who was reading on the opposite side of the garden. He looked deep in thought and twirled a flower bud between his fingers as he read.

"Yes, Father, he is," I said with a smile. I knew what my father was up to.

"And so gentlemanly and thoughtful!" he added.

"Yes, you're right," I said again, more resignedly this time. When my father knew what he wanted, he stopped at nothing to get it. He was so avidly encouraging me to like Alexandre that I was getting quite annoyed. Papa never would have done something like this.

"I'm so glad he'll be staying with us for a few weeks," he continued happily.

"You know, Father, you're not a very subtle matchmaker," I said with a wry smile.

"Matchmaker?" he said. "Why, I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, Cécile! Whatever can you mean?"

"Oh, Father," I laughed quietly. "We both know that the son of a duke would make a marvelous husband for a count's daughter. It is no accident that you invited him to stay with us."

"I assure you I hadn't thought of that, my dear. Although you do make an excellent point!" he said, as though the thought really had just occurred to him.

I rolled my eyes and returned to my book. I had scarcely been here a week or two and Father was already thrusting suitors at me. Alexandre was handsome, to be sure, but I found him repulsive. I doubted he was actually reading that book. The two days I had spent with him so far had led me to believe that beneath all his chivalrous behavior he was shallow and self-centered. He was used to getting his own way, I could tell-especially with women.

"Don't you find him agreeable?" Father pressed.

"I don't know," I said.

"Don't know?" he whispered incredulously. "The boy is perfect!"

"Hush, Father!" I urged him. "He will hear you!"

Alexandre looked up at us with a smirk. I smiled innocently back.

"Cécile, this sun will spoil your complexion. Why don't you go in and practice your harp instead?" Father whispered to me.

"Because, Father, I love the sun," I said. "And the harp…well, I know it was very expensive, but it bores me so."

"But daughter, I am sure Alexandre would love to hear you play!" he said.

"I do not _want _to, Father," I said more harshly than I meant to. I saw that I had hurt his feelings and apologized. "I didn't mean that. I am not feeling well at the moment," I said untruthfully.

"If that is the case, then perhaps you had best go to your chambers until dinner."

I excused myself eagerly and happily spent the next few hours in my room, reading my book in peace.

* * *

A messenger arrived later that evening with a large, extravagant bouquet of flowers. 

"For you, mademoiselle," Alexandre said gallantly to me.

"_Merci beaucoup_," I said. "They're beautiful, monsieur."

"Beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady," he replied in an oily voice, kissing my hand. "And I've told you to call me Alexandre!"

I had to pretend to be flattered. What a vile, despicable low-life he was, trying to get on my good side this way. I would _never_ call him Alexandre. That would suggest intimacy.

I passed the servants' quarters as I walked up to bed that night and couldn't help overhearing the maids' conversation.

"That bouquet he gave the young miss? Worst luck in one bouquet I've ever seen!" said one.

I stopped in my tracks, listening.

"How so?" I heard my maid Lucie say. "How can flowers be lucky or unlucky?"

"They've all got something different to say, didn't you know, dearie?"

"Nonsense, they're just plants, it's not as though they can _talk_!" Lucie said.

"Tsk, tsk, how little you know, young Lucie!" put in another maid.

"All right. What did the flowers in that bouquet have to say to you, Brigitte?"

"Oh, plenty, dearie, but nothing good! Tiger lilies? They mean he's after her money. Narcissus, that's an easy one, he's egotistical and stupid. Orange mock, they mean deceit! And do you know the meaning of spider flowers?"

"No, what?" said the others.

"Elope with me!"

The maids all shrieked with laughter.

"Why, that's the funniest thing I've ever heard!"

"Completely accidental-like, the man has picked the worst bunch of flowers he could! If that's not fate, I don't know what is!"

I left the corridor laughing.

* * *

"Lucie, what do you think of Alexandre?" I asked my maid that night as she was fixing my bed. 

"He's very handsome, miss," she replied.

"No, really, I need your opinion. _La verité_."

She looked around as if trying to find a place to hide. The truth was a dangerous thing for a servant to tell, I knew that from personal experience.

"Lucie," I said, "you know that you can trust me? I want us to be friends."

She gave me an expression of doubt. "I can't be _friends_ with you," she seemed to be saying, although I knew she would never actually speak the words. She gave my pillow a few blows to fluff it.

I frowned. I couldn't have this. "Come now, stop that. Yes, stop. You don't have to do silly things I can do for myself."

"But the count says--"

"Never mind what the count says, Lucie. All I need of you is to heat water for my baths and tie my stupid stay-laces because I haven't got two pairs of arms. I feel simply ridiculous making you do things like brush my hair and make my bed. It's nonsense, I am a perfectly capable human being. I'd much prefer your advice to your labor." I looked at her pointedly. "If you don't tell my father, I won't either. What do you say?" I smiled at her, and after a moment she cautiously returned the smile.

"Come here, sit," I beckoned. She sat in the chair facing mine. "Now, what do you think of Alexandre?"

She bit her lip, then said, "I…I'm not sure about him."

I knew this was as close as Lucie would come to saying she detested him. At least, for now. "Excellent," I replied at once. "I think he's horrid, I can't stand him at all. He's manipulative and and deceitful and low." It may have been an exaggeration, but I didn't care.

"Oh, I think so too!" she said excitedly. She lowered her voice. "You know, he's tried to…well, he's…he's spoken inappropriately toward Alice?"

"Has he?" I gasped, grabbing her hands. "Has he actually-"

Lucie shook her head vigorously. "No, miss, he was just talking."

"Thank God she is all right," I said. I shuddered. "Oh, I couldn't bear to have a man like that court me! I'd sooner kiss a _frog_ than him."

"Tell the count, miss," Lucie pleaded. "Monsieur Desmarais obviously wants to marry you, you just can't sit there!"

"I should," I said slowly. "but he wouldn't listen. He likes him too much."

"Your father wouldn't want a…a _rake_ for a son-in-law?" Lucie looked suddenly horrified with herself and clapped her hands over her mouth.

"It's all right, Lucie," I said, waving a hand. "I completely agree with you. But I'm afraid there's no way to get rid of him just yet."

She frowned then rose to leave, saying, "Well, miss, you'd best be getting some rest now. Good night."

"Good night," I replied. Then I added, "I'm so glad we had this talk, Lucie. I hope we can become friends? I do…need a friend sometimes."

Lucie smiled at me. "Of course, miss."

My friendship with Lucie grew with each passing day. "Have you always worked here?" I asked her one night.

"Ever since I was about eleven years old, miss," she answered.

"Eleven? I was eight when I--" I stopped suddenly.

Lucie looked at me with an amused expression.

I could tell her. After all, everyone here already knew that I hadn't grown up at the manor. They just didn't know where I had been.

"I used to be a maid," I said.

"A maid?" Lucie said with surprise.

I nodded. "At the castle, for the prince."

"Did you ever meet him?" she asked me.

I nodded again. "I think we were friends."

"You were _friends _with the _prince_?" she asked, thoroughly impressed.

My mind jumped to the weeks I had spent in that bedroom in the castle. The prince had visited me nearly every day. I missed his company. He had changed in those weeks. He had probably changed since I had last seen him, too. Yes, I missed him very much.

I suddenly remembered where I was. "Lucie, please don't tell anyone. I know that servants talk, but I do wish you wouldn't spread this."

She looked at me solemnly. "I won't." Then she murmured to herself, "Imagine, a maid being friends with the prince!"

I smiled again. It did sound rather far-fetched.


	16. News

Chapter Sixteen: News

"Well, there is to be some excitement around here!" Father said at breakfast a few days later, reading a letter. I could not see its contents from where I sat across the table, but I could guess from the elaborate calligraphy that it was an invitation.

"I do love excitement," Alexandre said to me in a low voice, giving me a flirtatious glance that my father did not see. It was difficult to resist the urge to roll my eyes.

"What kind of excitement?" I asked.

"A ball," Father replied. "Actually, two balls! One is a masquerade and the next is…oh, it seems to be a rose theme. Because the roses are in bloom."

My heart sunk into my stomach. I didn't want to go to one ball, much less two. I would have to dance with Alexandre all evening, one after the next. Perhaps I could find a really good costume for the masquerade, so good he wouldn't be able to find me. Oh, what nonsense. He'd find me anyway, no matter how I tried to hide. It would be two long, boring nights of-

"Where?" Alexandre asked, interrupting my nightmares.

"The castle," Father replied.

I nearly choked on my breakfast.

"Are you all right, Cécile?" Father asked, sounding alarmed.

I nodded, taking a long gulp of water. "Yes, I am fine. Did you say the castle?"

"Does this news upset you, daughter?" Father asked with concern. He obviously knew it would be strange for me be a guest where I had been a servant.

"No, not at all," I said, feigning indifference. "Pray, what is the occasion?"

"The prince's twenty-first birthday. It's high time he assumed the throne, but he cannot do so unmarried, you know."

I nodded again, this time more dazedly. Prince Étienne, the boy I served tea, was going to become king. But he had to find a queen first. For some reason, a bubble of hope began to fill my chest.

"I can scarcely wait until next week," Alexandre said, in his most gentlemanly of tones. Again, Father did not notice his shameless stare.

Father smiled broadly at both of us. "Nor can I."

I felt the bubble deflating. I was already missing life at the cottage, but now I was even starting to miss being a maid. I knew I would be stuck with Alexandre. But it was my daughterly duty.

* * *

We made plans to stay at an inn for the days of the balls. Our house was simply too far to be riding back and forth to the castle so many times. Thankfully, I convinced Father that Lucie should accompany us--at least I would have a friend on the daunting trip, even if she could not come to the balls with me. 

I was terrified of seeing the prince but equally anxious about staying at the house with Alexandre. He had been here a week and I was quite sick of him. Wherever I went, he was there. I could not read a book by myself in the library, for he was forever pestering me with pointless conversation. Somehow he always managed to find me on my long walks through the gardens. My only refuge was my bedroom. I was sure, though, that had it not been for his desire to impress my father, he would probably have followed me there as well. Not that Father would have been any less in love with him if he did so.

"Your stitches are so tiny," Alexandre said quietly to me the day before we were to leave for the inn. "It's a wonder you can even see them."

I surveyed my work. I knew he was only flattering me, but I could not help being a little proud. My needlepoint was not perfect, but it had gotten better. A pattern was finally discernible and I had only had to take out a few stitches.

I said nothing, pulling out my needle to continue working.

Alexandre smiled at me. "I need to find your father. There is something I must ask him." He stood up, knocking my elbow a little as he did so.

I gave a small gasp as the needle pricked my finger. A drop of blood fell on the white fabric.

"_Mon dieu, _I am so sorry, how clumsy of me," Alexandre said, noticing what he had done. He reached for my hand.

"Oh, no, it's all right," I said, pulling it out of his grasp.

He gave me an odd look, as though he were assessing me in some way. I felt my face heat up slightly. He smirked and said, "I'll be back in a moment," then turned and left the room.

I am counting down the seconds, I thought sarcastically, putting my finger in my mouth to stop the bleeding.

In no time he was back with a different, even more self-contented smile on his face.

Father followed him in and said, "Cécile, Alexandre has something he wishes to ask you."

My eyes widened. I was sure he was going to declare his intentions to me. I had to get out. Or was there some way to stall him? What could I do? I couldn't suddenly be ill again, Father wouldn't believe that. And I couldn't fall and be injured, I was sitting down. Tripping Alexandre was out of the question--he might get a bruise but nothing that would retire him to his room for several hours.

I was struck by a sudden inspiration. I picked up the cup of tea next to me, repressing an impish smile. Then I accidentally spilled it all over the front of my dress.

I dropped the teacup and fussed over my gown. "Oh, _mon dieu_, how clumsy of me," I said, looking up at Alexandre as I used his words. "Please excuse me."

I saw Father's face turn a dangerous shade of crimson but Alexandre merely smiled knowingly at me. For propriety's sake, I had to leave.

I took dainty steps away from the room, not in any hurry. I had just inexcusably insulted both Alexandre and my father. I knew I should be ashamed. Maman would have scolded me, and Papa would have given me a reproachful look stern enough to reduce me to tears. But I couldn't help feeling triumphant and elated at my freedom, even if it was only temporary.

Neither Alexandre nor Father brought up my escape at dinner, nor my blatant evasion of both of them in the hours since. But after the meal, Father took me aside and reprimanded me for the foolish thing I had done.

"Cécile, I am very disappointed in you," he said, looking furious. "You have offended Alexandre, and embarrassed me, and I should say you are very lucky that he has not left the place altogether! In the future, you will listen respectfully to anything a man has to say, not run off like a child. Especially one who is so obviously enamored of you! You should be _ashamed_ of yourself, Cécile. He must think you an absolute barbarian. You should have heard me trying to persuade him to forgive you! I suppose this is what comes of being raised a servant." He spoke the last words with the utmost derision.

Shocked, I said I was sorry and promised never to do something so irresponsible again.

"I should hope so! Now, you will join us in the drawing room and apologize to Alexandre. And then you will hear him out." It was an order, not a request.

As I had expected, Alexandre requested to court me. Father's face told me I had to accept and I did so as naturally as I could.

But almost more unnerving than the prospect of being made to wed Alexandre was this sudden change in my father. I had never seen him so angry before, and it frightened me. The father who had just scolded me was so different from the same kind, vulnerable-looking man who had told me about his wife back at the cottage in the woods. What could have altered him so? Why did not I have a say in my own marriage? We had plenty of money, and we did not want for land or title. Alexandre's family could give us nothing we did not already possess. What was the good, then, in forcing me into a match I was so obviously opposed to?

* * *

Late that night, I stirred from my bed at the sound of a horse riding up to the house. Somehow in my drowsy delirium, I imagined it to be Diavolo and traipsed over to the windowsill. One light breeze from the window, though, and the chilly night air quickly disillusioned me. Instead of my black stallion gleaming in the moonlight, I saw a cloaked man dismounting a large grey horse. 

It had to be in the early hours of the morning. What was this man doing here? He wasn't wearing a messenger's uniform. And he couldn't have been here by accident, could he?

I put on my dressing gown and stuck my head out into the hall, tiptoeing down the servants' stairs when I was sure it was safe to do so.

I couldn't see anyone in the kitchens, the dining room, the drawing room, or the library. Where had the man gone? Everyone was asleep. Alexandre was, that much was certain; I had passed his room and he snored quite loudly. Was the stranger a thief?

Suddenly I heard voices. They were muffled, but I was sure they were voices. Only one man had come to the house. Who was he talking to? Then I noticed that there was a light in Father's study.

I crept closer to the door, trying to silence even my own breathing to hear what was going on. The door was open a crack but I could not chance their seeing me by looking in.

"--simply can't risk it!" I heard my father say.

"If we don't do it _now_ there will never be an opportunity!" said a voice I didn't recognize. It must have belonged to the cloaked man.

"Émile," Father said in a lower voice, "if everything were going according to plan I would agree with you. But that is not the case."

"What is not going according to plan, André?" the man called Émile demanded. "Is something not going according to plan? Is it the girl?" What girl?

Evidently Father's face betrayed something, because Émile said, "What is stopping us from taking action now?"

Father said nothing for a moment. I heard shuffling feet within and stepped away from the door, my heart pounding. What if they were to come out and find me eavesdropping?

Then Father said, "Very well."

"I am glad we have an accord," Émile said, sounding pleased with himself. I heard him stand up to leave and I ran silently back up the stairs, only stopping when I was back in my chambers with the door shut tightly.


	17. Masquerade

Chapter Seventeen: Masquerade

I looked at myself once more in the mirror, letting out a shaky breath. My gown was more beautiful than anything I'd ever seen, let alone worn. The plum-colored silk taffeta skirt opened out in a graceful bell shape. The fitted bodice was patterned with tiny fleurs-de-lis and outlined by a thin gold cord. The sleeves stopped at my elbows in the same sheer white material that lined the square neckline.

"And don't forget this, my lady," Lucie said, holding out a mask of the same violet hue as my dress.

"Thank you, Lucie." My hands shook as I attempted to tie the mask's ribbons around my curls. I soon gave up and said, "Oh, I'm so nervous." I tried to tell myself to stop being so spineless. But I just wanted to curl up in bed and stay there all night.

Lucie smiled, tying the strings herself. The night before I had told her of my past dealings with the prince. "You're beautiful, miss. There's nothing to be nervous about."

"Cécile, we are leaving now," Father called from the next room, a small corridor that connected Father's and Alexandre's bedroom with my own.

I looked wide-eyed at Lucie and she squeezed my hands reassuringly. "All will be well, my lady."

* * *

The carriage rolled up to the castle not long after. It was a sight to see, all lit up and ornamented for the evening. Lanterns hung everywhere, and the trees that lined the pathway looked as though they were covered gold and silver leaves. I wished I could pluck a branch off of each, so that when I was old and tired I could still believe I had been to such a magnificent party. 

The great hall, too, looked lovely, festooned with flowers and candles and garlands. It was odd, though. I remembered walking these halls but a few months ago, a bucket of soapy water or a broom in hand. It seemed so long ago. Almost as though it had been a dream. Or as though this moment were a dream. A lovely dream.

"You act as though you've never been to a ball," Alexandre said jokingly to me, noticing my gaping mouth and wide eyes.

I never had, but he couldn't know that. "It's just that it's been such a long time," I said quickly. "And this one is so very lovely, don't you agree?"

He looked at me with a smile and said, "Oh, certainly, certainly."

A merry gavotte was playing and there were already many couples dancing. I stood on my toes as discreetly as I could, looking around the room. Queen Catherine was sitting on her throne, but I saw no sign of her son. Perhaps as the guest of honor he had not yet arrived.

And then, quite suddenly, I saw him. The prince. Standing only across the room. I felt faint.

I took another look at him when I was quite ready. Could two months' absence change a person so much? He looked taller than I remembered. Or maybe it was because he wasn't being weighed down by his worry and grief. And his skin hadn't darkened, but it lacked the sallow tinge of sleep deprivation and poor health. Or was it merely the lighting? He was wearing a very regal navy jacket with gold embroidery. His dark hair was shining, and his eyes--they were as unreadable as ever. He and his mother were the only ones in the room not wearing masks. But I could have picked him out of the crowd anyway.

Just looking at him made me feel uneasy. He must have hated me, I knew it. And if he had known who I was, he would have detested me even more.

The intensity of my gaze must have drawn his attention. He made eye contact with me for a moment, an expression of puzzlement crossing his features. I quickly looked away.

"Cécile, would you care to dance?" Alexandre asked.

I shushed him. "Don't say my name!" No one must overhear that I was called Cécile.

"Come now, Mademoiselle Levesque, don't we know each other well enough by now? We may soon be marr--"

I cut him off, not wanting to hear the dreaded word. "No, it's not that. It's just--oh, come on, let's dance," I said unenthusiastically. Eager to get away from the prince, I pulled Alexandre by the hand toward the floor.

"Very well," he said, sounding slightly surprised but pleased nonetheless. I was disgusted by him but terrified of the prince finding out who I was.

I looked around the room, but always kept an eye on Prince Étienne. He wasn't dancing. I knew he probably didn't much care for the young ladies here tonight. They were all superficial and silly, gossiping in pairs or trios and flirting coyly with handsome young nobles. Poor Prince Étienne. His mother was making him marry one of them. I knew exactly how unhappy he would be; I was being forced to wed someone I didn't care for as well.

As if on cue, Alexandre spoke. "Why is it you are so intent on ignoring me?" he asked me.

"Pardon me?" I said, blushing. I hadn't been paying attention at all, instead standing on tiptoe to look over his shoulder at the prince. We were a safe distance now.

He laughed. "What is it about you?"

"Is there something about me?" I asked, bristling.

"Yes," he responded. I couldn't see his expression from his mask. "You know, I consider myself a rather eligible young man. And yet you couldn't care less that I'm courting you."

I pretended to be very interested in the gown of a young lady passing by. He was so incredibly egotistical.

"Or perhaps you do care," he said quietly in my ear, "and you're just too strong and independent to admit it."

He was revolting. I didn't answer.

Alexandre took my silence as assent. "See? I know you so well," he smirked.

I nearly cried trying to hold in my laughter.

* * *

"Mademoiselle," I heard a voice say behind me. 

I turned around slowly, knowing the voice and dreading what I now had to do.

"May I have this dance?" the prince asked, offering me his hand.

"Of--of course, your highness," I stuttered, accepting it.

How could I have been so stupid as to not change my voice at all? He would surely recognize it. We made our way to the dance floor, where a slow waltz was beginning. I prayed I wouldn't step on his toes.

I avoided his dark, penetrating eyes, thankful to have a mask on. I couldn't help wondering whether he could tell who I was, despite my expensive gown, curled hair, and hidden features. I hoped he couldn't.

"I don't believe I know you, miss," the prince said after a moment. "What is your name?"

My name? What was my name? Certainly not Cécile Pierpont. I couldn't even be Cécile Levesque, for my given name would certainly remind him of the maid who had left his service without so much as an _adieu_. "I am the daughter of _le comte de _ Levesque," I stalled nervously.

"Count Levesque? I was unaware he had a daughter," the prince said, raising an eyebrow. I knew his expression well. He didn't believe me. Ironic, considering the fact that it was probably the only truth I would tell him tonight.

"I have been away at school for some years now, your highness," I said. I knew that my comment made my claim of nobility even less credible, but I hoped desperately that he would believe it.

"Really? Where?" he asked, sounding interested.

I was positively trembling now. "The c-country," I stammered vaguely.

"I should like to have a talk with your father, I have not spoken with him in some time," the prince said, looking me hard in the eyes as though he were trying to force a confession from me.

"He would be delighted, your highness," I replied, trying to sound resolute. "You see him there, by the wall. I shall take you to him after the dance, if you wish it."

He softened his gaze, evidently aware that he was troubling me. "I am sorry, miss--I must not have heard your name."

"Mariette," I offered. My mother's name had been the first one to come into my mind.

"Mariette," he repeated, and our eyes met. I looked away again, thankful for once that I had unremarkable mud-brown eyes. He would have remembered a vibrant shade like blue of Sophie's eyes, a bright azure I had always envied. "Are you enjoying the ball, Mademoiselle Mariette?"

"Oh, yes, your highness," I said, attempting a sincere tone. "Father and I have not been to a ball in some time."

"Nor have I," murmured the prince. He seemed to be weighing something mentally before he said, "Do you like to read?"

"Very much," I said, before I could stop myself. I froze. _Cécile_ liked to read. Mariette couldn't. "_Not_ very much, I mean. Not much at all, in fact. I prefer--" What did I prefer? Think, think, think! A bouquet of roses caught my eye. "--gardening!"

I looked away, wanting to slap myself. _Gardening_? I couldn't have thought of something better?

And besides, now he _must_ have known I liked to read, for why else would I have told such an obvious falsehood? Why, it was a wonder he hadn't guessed who I was already. Or perhaps he had. Perhaps he was simply biding his time before he revealed me to the whole hall as an impostor, a traitor, and a coward.

"Really?" he asked, looking amused. "Gardening?" He seemed on the verge of laughter.

"Yes, gardening," I said firmly. "I am quite passionate about flowers. Wisteria, jonquils, lilies-of-the-valley," I prattled. "And I quite especially love jasmine."

I was certainly entertaining him, but not convincing him. I breathed a sigh of relief when the dance finally ended.

"Thank you, mademoiselle, for the dance," he said with a bow and a smile.

"Thank you, your highness," I said, curtsying. "And happy birthday."

He walked away, and I turned to look for Alexandre. I needed the mindless chatter he supplied me with to take my mind off of the impending calamity.

* * *

"It was awkward, but tomorrow will be worse," I said with a sigh, as Lucie helped me untie my stays. "I will have no mask to hide under." 

"Did you talk to him?"

"Yes, I danced with him once. And he kept looking at me all evening. He didn't believe I was actually the daughter of Count Levesque."

Lucie muttered something, smirking, but I didn't ask her what.

Before I went to bed that night, I went to wish Father and Alexandre good night. Their door was open to reveal an empty chamber. Deciding they must have lingered in the dining hall, I went down the stairs to find them.

They were deep in conversation, with their backs to me, when I spotted them. I wouldn't disturb them. I turned back up the stairs to go. But my curiosity got the better of me; I simply couldn't help listening.

"So it will have to be tomorrow, then?" Alexandre said under his breath.

"Yes," Father replied wearily. "It _must_ be."

My heartbeat quickened. Did this have something to do with Father's mysterious nighttime conference?

"And everything is ready?"

"All we must do is watch and wait. The moment he goes anywhere alone, we must be ready to give the word."

Who was "he"? I hurried back up the stairs where I could be alone. But I was too loud.

"Cécile?" Father called, sounding cross again.

I was caught. Thinking quickly, I pretended as though I had been coming down the stairs, not going up them. The staircase was hidden from view by a wall, and they would never know.

"Yes, Father?" I said innocently, stepping into his line of sight.

He looked me over with an air of displeasure. "Daughter, do you often listen in on other peoples' conversations, conversations that don't concern you in the slightest?"

"No, Father," I said, trying to look confused and surprised. "I was just coming down to bid you good night."

"Were you indeed?" he replied, though he didn't say it as though it were a question.

"Yes." I was shocked. Was this new Father the real Father?

"Well, go on then, off to bed with you."

"_Bonne nuit_, Father," I said, kissing him on the cheek, trying to play the perfect daughter. "_Bonne nuit_, Alexandre."

"Good night, Cécile," Alexandre said, looking entirely too aware of what I was up to.

* * *

_ Oh, la la, _things are getting interesting! So...did you like it? 


	18. The Revelation

Chapter Eighteen: The Revelation

"For God's sake, Cécile, why are you so jittery?" Alexandre said impatiently.

I didn't say anything. What excuse could I offer?

"Let me get you something to drink," he said, rising. I thanked him and he left.

"You look lovely, Cécile," Father said, hugging me.

I smiled at him and returned the embrace. He was in a much better mood today, and I was relieved.

"I'm very sorry I was so rude to you last night," he continued. "I had a splitting headache that was putting me in such a bad humor."

"Well, I'm glad you are feeling better," I said brightly.

"Thank you," he replied with a smile. A richly dressed man addressed him a moment later and he led him away, exclaiming, "Baron Dupuis! I've been wanting to ask you something for quite some time now."

Alexandre returned with our drinks soon after. "To us," he said, raising his wineglass.

I forced a smile and, while he was draining his glass, dumped my own into the potted plant next to me.

* * *

I didn't notice Prince Étienne enter the great hall; he appeared quite suddenly, as if by magic. He stood across the room from me, looking reluctant, even irritated. I turned away to postpone his inevitable discovery as long as possible. It would not be long, though. Without my mask, I felt vulnerable and frightened.

I looked cautiously in his direction. He was greeting a group of young ladies. The maidens were all the same, giggling demurely and flattering him endlessly. I could tell from here that he was bored by their dazzling smiles. They prodded him for conversation but he didn't respond. Finally they gave up, floating away, and he joined his mother at the far side of the room.

She straightened her son's crown, speaking with a warm smile. I wished I knew what they were talking about. He left her after a moment, looking resigned. Then he asked a quiet brown-haired girl to dance. She wasn't terribly pretty, and her dress was of an unflattering hue.

"Cécile, would you care to dance?" Alexandre asked me, noticing that I was looking at the spinning couples.

"Oh, _mon dieu, _no," I answered.

He looked surprised at my discourteous response.

"I mean, not just now, thank you," I said quickly.

He laughed at me. "You're going to be a handful, aren't you?"

I'll do my best, I thought, smiling angelically at him.

I watched them dance. She was so timid, hardly saying a word. And she kept blushing. Once they came quite near to where Alexandre and I stood. I quickly turned my face toward the wall behind me.

Alexandre noticed, of course. "Do you not care for the prince?" he asked with his characteristic smirk.

"What?" I said, caught off guard. "Of--of course not. I mean, I do. Well, I don't know, I--I hardly know him."

"I don't like him," Alexandre said more quietly.

I tried not to show my surprise and distaste. "Why not?" I asked casually.

"Étienne just doesn't know how to run this kingdom. If I were giving the orders, I'd be doing things differently."

What a rude thing to say, I thought. What had Prince Étienne done to merit such unwonted disrespect?

I looked to where he was dancing with the shy brunette. But to my horror, he was gazing straight back at me.

His expression changed. My cheeks felt as though they were on fire. Then, jaw jutting out as though he were posing for a royal portrait, he bowed to his bewildered partner and left the room.

He must hate me, I thought, close to tears. He must hate me. But I rushed after him, ignoring Alexandre's confusion.

He was stalking down the corridor out to the rose gardens. I knew my surroundings well. It wasn't hard to recall myself walking here carrying a bucket and cloth to wash the windows, or a broom to sweep the cold stone floors.

He had a long stride, and I could barely keep up with him. Damn this dress! I thought as I tripped over my dusty rose gown.

"Your highness," I said breathlessly when I had almost caught up with him.

He kept walking down the hallway, not answering.

"You must listen," I pleaded, rushing along behind him.

He turned around, straight-faced but cool. "You have nothing to say to me, mademoiselle. Or at least nothing worth saying."

I was hurt but I knew I deserved it. I could read his thoughts. _Of all the low, dirty schemes. Mariette, indeed. How dare she?_ And his anger was perfectly justified.

"Your highness, I'm so sorry," I began. "I had no idea who I was, or what I was, or, well, Father just--"

"It really is none of my business," he said simply. He was so calm and collected. He _had_ changed. The Étienne I knew would have been yelling for me to get out of his sight by now. The transformation was unsettling.

"But I--"

"If you'll excuse me, I have guests to attend to," he interrupted me.

"But I must tell you--you must listen--" I grabbed his arm desperately.

For a split second his heart seemed to soften. Then, as though he were suddenly realizing who I was, he removed my hand from his sleeve and simply walked away. "I think you should find your escort. He will be quite desolate to have lost you."

My escort? Alexandre? "So _that's_ what this is about?" I burst out, offended by his words but more affected by the fact that he was completely unperturbed. "Are you _jealous_ that--"

"Mademoiselle Pierpont, or, Mademoiselle Levesque, or whatever your name is tonight, this is not about jealousy. This is about trust, and honesty--virtues you clearly know little about."

"But I didn't know!" I said, holding back tears, as he continued down the corridor. "I didn't know."

He turned around suddenly, dark eyes flashing dangerously. "Mademoiselle, you may wear fine clothing and have wealthy, titled beaux. But no one is taken in by your performance. You aren't noble, no matter how large your estate is, no matter how advantageous a match you make, no matter how great a fortune you inherit. You cannot _buy_ respect. Grace, admiration, dignity; they have no weight in gold. You will never be able to escape the fact that you're no more than a common servant."

He was silent, letting the power of his words sink in. We stared at each other for a few seconds. His eyes were hard, emotionless, his expression blank, as though nothing had happened.

This, I knew, was the worst insult the prince could give. My eyes filled with tears; I looked up to keep them from flowing. Then I turned around and left. Why was I wasting my time?

"Cécile?" Alexandre asked a moment later. "What the devil is going on? Are you all right? What were you thinking, running out of here like a madwoman?"

I said nothing. I didn't want to talk to him. I sat down without a word, still thinking about the prince.

How dare he speak to me that way? What gave him the right to say such horrible things to anyone? He called himself noble, of course. He had the bluest blood that ever was seen. Never mind the fact that he had irreparably insulted a lady. And how could he accuse me of only being concerned with money? If he stopped thinking of himself for one moment, perhaps he would see that I had made a difficult decision. He had grown up in perfect comfort. Just because I had worked for most of my life, did that make me an inferior human being? It was not so easy for me as it was for him; the simple act of ringing a bell would not have brought me a lavish meal a year ago. I had earned everything I had. At that moment I felt a rush of pride: for Papa and Maman, for Alain, even for Alexandre. He was right in disliking the prince and his stupid policies. Étienne was a monster and I had never hated him so much.

"What has gotten into you?" he said more quietly, searching my face.

I knew I was acting like a pouting child but I remained silent.

His expression changed. He gave a nod, smirking. I thought it a curious gesture before I realized he wasn't looking at me, but behind me, at someone across the room. I couldn't tell who, but it was no doubt a maiden.

I raised my eyebrows at him. We were practically engaged now. Didn't he have _some_ self-control?

"What is that look for, Cécile?" he asked teasingly.

I didn't reply. Any respect I had felt for him a moment ago vanished.

He slid closer to me and snaked his arm around my waist. "Come now, what is it?"

When he saw that I wouldn't be swayed, he brought his lips near my ear and said, "Soon all our troubles will be over. So stop frowning,_ ma chérie_."

I could have been sick. "_Ma chérie_"? But before I had time to wonder what he had meant about our troubles being over soon, a horrible sound burst through the joyful music: a roar of agony, a yell of utmost pain.

I shot to my feet. Where was my father?


	19. Roses

Chapter Nineteen: Roses

The whole room was in turmoil. The guests were squawking like chickens, running out as fast as they could. Women shrieking, everyone making for the doors. But I had to find Father. It was he who had yelled out so, I was certain of it. Find Father, find Father. It was my only thought.

I headed away from the door, trying to push my way through the throng, against the crowd. My toes were crushed, once, twice, too many times to count, but I really couldn't feel it. My father was in danger, in pain.

Finally breaking away from the masses of people in the great hall, I raced through the corridors I knew so well. Where could he be? I checked room after room, calling his name. Why wasn't he answering? Couldn't he hear me? Every room, no response. No sign of him anywhere. Soon all that remained were the rose gardens.

The gardens were empty, as far as I could see. It was dark. I grabbed one of the lanterns from the wall and raced among the maze of beautiful, perfect, sweet-smelling flowers. He was nowhere to be found. I headed back to the door, heart still pounding.

I was opening the door to go back inside when I heard a weak voice say, "Cécile." It was only a faint murmur.

"Father?" I cried, holding out my lantern. "Father, where are you?"

But it wasn't Father.

The voice was coming from only a few feet away from me, where Prince Étienne was lying in the shadows, curled up in pain.

"Étienne!" I whispered, dropping to my knees.

"S-stabbed--me," Étienne gasped.

I swooned suddenly. The light fell onto his shirt, stained with blood that was spurting from a gash in his chest. The wound was near his shoulder, as though he had turned away just in time to keep the attacker's knife from finding his heart.

The garden was spinning but instinct told me to put my handkerchief in the wound.

He winced. "Cécile!" he whispered. "I--I--"

"Stop talking," I said, hardly recognizing my own quavering tones. "I know it hurts, I'm sorry."

I bit my bottom lip. The blood was soaking through the thin piece of cloth. I twisted it around to make it thicker but still saw the red stains growing. My handkerchief soon resembled a somewhat surreal, but sickening, rose.

"Help!" I said, my voice cracking. No one could hear me. "Someone, help!" I called again, louder this time. Why wasn't anyone coming?

I looked down again, in a daze. My fingers were bloody. So was my gown. Étienne was closing his eyes, his face deathly pale.

A mutilated rose, its stem shredded and petals torn, fell from his hand.

"Étienne! No!" I screamed. "Say something! Wake up!"

His eyes flickered open then shut again. I mustn't move my handkerchief. My face felt wet. Tears had been streaming down my cheeks, probably for some time.

The flame in my lantern burnt out.

I was shivering, despite the warmth of the night. My stomach hurt. "Wake up!" I sobbed quietly, still not daring to move. "Étienne! Please, wake up."

A lifetime later, men came, with more lanterns.

"Mademoiselle! You must go!" someone said, trying to pull me away. "Someone call a doctor, quick!"

"No, I can't move my handkerchief!" I replied.

"Help me move her."

"No! Stop it!"

"She's a girl, not an animal, you're upsetting her!"

"Wait. Look, she's plugged the wound."

"_Mon dieu_, so she has."

"How did she know to do it?"

"I don't know, but thank God she did."

"The guests must leave at once."

"Yes, tell them to leave!"

"Étienne," I sobbed.

"Where is he? Where is the prince?"

"Oh, thank God, a doctor!"

"My dear, you can remove your hand," a voice said gently.

I shook my head.

"See there, I've got a bandage. It's all right."

"No, I can't leave!"

"Get her away from here."

"No, stop it! Let me go!"

"Come on, miss!"

"She won't budge."

"Of course not, she's hysterical. Get someone she knows."

"But who is she?"

"Cécile! Cécile, it's Alexandre. You must come with me!"

"Stop it, get away! Let me go, I can't leave him!"

I grabbed at Étienne. I was being dragged away from him, back into the hall. Father was waiting there, the only one left, with my cloak. He draped it over me and Alexandre pulled me away again at once. Before I was quite aware of what was going on, we were in the carriage.

"I can't move my handkerchief," I sobbed quietly into Alexandre's chest.

"She's in shock," Alexandre said quietly, covering me with his coat.

"We must leave at once," Father said, putting his own coat over me as well.

* * *

"Get Bernard to take these things in," I heard Father say what seemed like a moment later.

"Yes, my lord," Lucie replied.

Lucie? And Bernard, that was Father's manservant. What were they doing here? I was still in the carriage. We had just left the castle, hadn't we?

The castle. Oh, God. Why wasn't I with Étienne? Where was he? Was he all right? I sat up quickly.

I felt suddenly as though someone had knocked me over the head and lay back down.

"Keep still, Cécile," Alexandre said gently from above me. He lifted me tenderly, as though I were only a baby, and stepped out of the carriage. Gravel crunched beneath his feet. I looked up at him. His handsome face looked determined but kind.

I looked around dazedly. We were at the manor again.

"Your father insisted we come right home," he explained softly upon seeing my confusion. "He was worried about you." A pause. "I was, too."

He looked almost embarrassed. The expression was one I'd never seen from him. I didn't know whether to thank him or to ask the motive behind his kindness.

He put me down outside the door to my bedchamber and steadied me as I tried to stay upright. "Do you need anything? Water, perhaps? Something to eat? What can I get for you?"

I thanked him but declined. "All I need is to sleep."

He smiled at me. "I wish I had half your strength, Mademoiselle Cécile." Then he took my hand and kissed it gently, not with his usual exaggerated gallantry. "Good night."

In my room, I turned over the night's events in my head. Had it really happened?

I hadn't realized that I had been clutching something in my right hand. A red rose petal, ripped down the middle. I gazed at it for some time. What if he…what if our argument that evening was the last time we ever spoke?


	20. News Again

Chapter Twenty: News Again

We heard conflicting rumors from the castle, each different but terrifying in its own way. Some said Étienne had nearly been killed, that the black cloud of death was hanging over the castle and he was hanging on to life by a mere string. Others said he was making a slow recovery, but could easily relapse at any moment. Some claimed it had all been a plot to root out disloyalty in the kingdom, that the entire affair had been a charade. I didn't know what to believe. I wanted someone, anyone, to say that he was doing well and getting better everyday. But no such news came.

No one knew who had done it; the traitor could be in his midst at any moment, just waiting for the opportunity to finish what he (or she—as far as anyone knew it could have been a woman) had begun. I worried constantly that I would never see him again, replaying our last meeting in my head over and over. Was I just a common servant? Is that all he thought of me as? He had called my name when I had found him, had recognized me in the faint light. But no conclusion could be drawn from that—his life had been at stake. He didn't care who helped him, as long as someone did. I had tried. I prayed to God that someone was trying now.

A thought nagged at me, though. Had I done my best? Could I have done more for Étienne? If only I had found him sooner, I thought desperately. If I had run a little faster, if I had gotten to the gardens quicker. He wouldn't have lost so much blood, he would have recovered without a doubt. And why had I not called louder for someone to come, why had I tried to stop his bleeding with but a scrap of silk? I should have ripped off a length of fabric from my dress, I should have known how to do more. Now, who could tell if my meager efforts had been enough? I had been completely stunned for several seconds. Those seconds could have cost Étienne his life.

I knew I should take all my fears and lock them away; that I should say firmly to myself, Cécile, he will be all right. All will be well.

But I couldn't. Everything led my mind back to the prince. There was no way to fill the days, hours, minutes. I skimmed through many volumes of our extensive library, but never really read. A book could be ruined by the simple thought that a passage I found funny would appeal to Étienne as well. I went for a ride at least once every day, but was never truly satisfied by it. No horse in my father's stables could quite compare to Diavolo—_his _horse. I ate little and slept even less. I found myself staring into space most of the time, brow furrowed and lips pressed together. I was constantly nervous, startled by a creak in the floorboards or a knock on the door.

I thought often of going to see him. And why couldn't I? Élisabeth or Hélène would let me in, I was sure of that. And the doctors knew me from when I had been sick myself. Getting in would be no difficulty. But what if he didn't want to see me? I could upset him, slow the healing process even more. I could think of no reason that he would wish for me to be there, after the argument we had had. And anyway, what did _I_ expect to gain by seeing him? He would be covered in bandages, pale as a ghost, asleep or unconscious. He couldn't talk to me. Or, if by some miracle he could, would he just repeat the sentiments he had expressed that night? No, it was undoubtedly best that I stay home.

Alexandre was actually a comfort to me in this time. He had the ability to distract me for a while, to make me think of something other than Étienne for a few short moments. But it was different from before, when my contempt for him had pushed all other thoughts out of my head. No, now he was behaving…well, like a friend. He had given his showy, overly-chivalrous behavior a rest ever since that night. His new manners were warmer, more like a real person. I was getting to know him, and even—although ever so slowly—growing to respect him.

However, as if life weren't difficult enough, I soon received what was probably the worst news I could.

It was a hot afternoon, not the first of its kind that summer, nor the last. I was wandering through the corridors when Father stopped me, a letter in one hand. "Cécile, I'm afraid I have some bad news."

I looked up at him with concern, unsure of what to expect.

"I've had a letter from Virginie Pierpont. Her husband is feeling unwell."

Whatever I had been expecting, that wasn't it. Perhaps money was short because there had been no rain for quite some time. Perhaps Alexandre had to leave. At the very worst I had thought that some aristocrat friend of Father's had died and we would have to attend his funeral. But Papa was sick. Étienne was gravely injured. Could things get any worse?

"Unwell?" I repeated dazedly.

Father said softly, "Cécile, he is very sick."

"I—I must go to him at once," I stammered.

"Of course," Father said. "Would you like me to come?"

"No, it's all right," I replied shakily.

He nodded once, a trusting gesture.

I rushed up to my chambers and began frantically stuffing a bag full of my simplest dresses. I couldn't leave the cottage until Papa was better—and who knew how long that would be?

Alexandre caught me on my way out.

"Cécile! Where are you going? Is something wrong?" he asked, looking sincerely worried.

"A—a very old friend is sick," I said.

"Then I shan't stand in your way," he said. "Do you need a companion?"

"No, thank you," I said.

"Of course," he said, bowing and opening the door for me.

* * *

"Cécile, my darling," Maman said, embracing me as I came through the door, face red and throat parched. The cottage was not cold but it was nonetheless an oasis from the sweltering heat outside.

"How is Papa?" I asked, searching her face for any signs.

"He is very sick, my dear," she said, looking terrified. "He caught a chill not long after you left us last, and it has only gotten worse."

"May I see him?"

"Of course," Maman replied, "he would love to see you."

The Papa I saw was not the same man he had been two months ago. He was in bed, covered in blankets with a half-empty bowl of soup on the table. His skin was ashen and looked almost crusty. He was not asleep, that is to say, his bloodshot eyes were partly open. But I wasn't sure if he was awake, either.

"Papa?" I said softly, sitting in the chair at his side.

He didn't move.

I took his hand. "Papa," I repeated. "It's Cécile."

I was taken aback to see his eyes move toward me. He smiled when he realized who I was. "Hello, Cécile," he said weakly.

"How are you feeling?" I said, chewing on my bottom lip.

He smiled again. "Not very w—" He interrupted himself with a fit of coughing that sounded so painful it made me wince.

"I'm sorry, I won't make you talk again," I said.

"Nonsense," he said, turning his head toward me.

I shushed him, though I knew he wouldn't be persuaded.

"I wi—" My heart broke as I watched him lean over, hacking violently. He caught his breath a moment later and rasped, "I'm rather bored, Cécile, would you read to me?" He gestured to a book that was serving as a cushion for the soup bowl.

Some time later the cottage door opened. I heard Maman speaking in low tones with someone, but I continued reading.

The doorway creaked behind me. I stopped reading and turned in my seat.

"Hello, Georges," Alain said, stepping forward. My jaw nearly dropped. What was he doing here? "How are you feeling?"

Papa smiled wanly. "I've been better, my boy."

Alain held up the parcel he was holding. "I've brought you something. But you must promise me to eat it."

"I'll eat anything as long as it's as good as the plums you brought yesterday," Papa said with a boyish smile. I was glad to see the expression on his face, although not quite sure I approved of the one who had inspired it.

"And those tomatoes, wherever did you get such perfect tomatoes in this drought?" Maman put in.

I felt a slight warmth in my cheeks and looked away. So Alain had been bringing them food, had been providing for them as a son would. I felt betrayed. Why had Alain known of my father's sickness before I had? And then I felt ashamed. I should have made more of an effort to look after Maman and Papa. _I_ should have been the one bringing them fresh plums and tomatoes. I certainly had the means.

Alain turned to me, as though he had just noticed I was there. "Hello, Cécile. Have you been here long?"

"No, perhaps half an hour," I replied coolly, unsure how to treat him. He seemed to have forgotten what had happened between us. But I could not.

"What is it, then, boy?" Papa wheezed, nodding at the package.

Alain gave him a mischievous smile. Theatrically, he untied the twine to reveal a chicken, already beheaded and plucked.

Maman cooed and tutted. "Your hard-earned wages, on poor old fools like us! Oh, Alain, you do spoil us so! I'm going to make chicken stew, and you're staying for supper." She flapped off to the kitchen, fussing over the fat bird.

"That woman goes mad every time you come," Papa said softly.

Alain laughed. "That's all right. If anyone deserves that chicken, she does," he responded.

I tried not to stare. Why was he bending over backward to be generous and charitable? Certainly they had been friends, but he had never been this close to Maman and Papa before. Besides, wasn't visiting them taking away from the precious time he could be spending robbing wealthy nobles like Father?

Our eyes met. "Let's let him rest a bit," Alain said quietly, gesturing at Papa, whose eyes were fluttering open and shut. I followed Alain out.

"So you're here fairly often, I take it?" I said stiffly.

"Are you jealous?" he grinned at me. The impertinence.

I opened my mouth to give an answer but was interrupted.

"Why have you not brought Florence?" Maman called from the kitchen. Florence? Who was Florence? Was Alain courting someone?

"She should be here soon," Alain replied.

"Who is Florence, and how does she stand you?" I asked curtly.

"Now I _know_ you're jealous," he said.

My eyes narrowed and he laughed. "Cécile, I was joking. Honestly."

"I haven't forgiven you," I told him pointedly.

"Clearly," he retorted. The he sighed and hung his head. "I'm sorry. I was…I was stupid." He looked sincere. Alain used to be a very honest person. Was he still?

Alain gazed at me intently with those clear blue eyes. "Cécile, _je le jure_, I will do anything to ensure your happiness. Surely you must know that."

He didn't deserve my forgiveness. What he had done was unpardonable, wasn't it?

But all the same, I couldn't stop myself from breaking down and saying, "I know, Alain."

"You know, but you don't believe," he said, staring hard at me.

I looked away. His gaze was far too intense.

"No, Cécile, look at me. I will always be there for you. Always."

I smiled. "Of course you will. We're best friends."

He grinned, grabbing me in a tender hug. "That's my Cécile."

I pulled away, still curious. "Now, who is this Florence?"

"You'll meet her, fear not," he replied, a smile playing on his lips.

* * *

Just want to clarify something: Florence is pronounced Flo-RAWNCE, _not _as though it rhymes with Lawrence. For some reason, the name seems far prettier when you say it the French way.

As usual, tell me what you think, _mes amis_! I know this chapter was sort of slow, but at least it was long(er), right? And I bet you know that I really like reviews... :)

Also I have heard from several sources that my story is a bit confusing. **PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE pm me if you believe this is the case!!** It all makes sense to me, obviously, because I know what's really going to happen. But I need to make sure you all understand it, or else what is the point of writing it, right?


	21. Change Again

Chapter Twenty-One: Change Again

I blinked once, very unintelligently, when I met Florence a few days later.

She stood in the doorway, a basket in the crook of her arm and a white cap over her gleaming red curls, the picture of a gentle country beauty, an absolute angel. Turning to me with a pure smile, she said, "Oh, you must be Cécile! I'm Florence, how do you do?"

I said nothing for a moment, completely dumbstruck. She was everything I had imagined at the castle those months ago, the exact incarnation of my ideas of Alain's future love. It was unbelievable. The hair, the expression, the saintly radiance, everything, right down to the bunch of flowers in her basket.

She looked to Alain with slight confusion, obviously questioning my sanity.

Fortunately I regained my senses within a few seconds. I quickly put on a smile, and, delighted to see the expression on my face, she gave me one of her own.

"I'm so sorry, Florence," I said smoothly. "I have such terrible manners, please forgive me. But I am so glad to meet you at last, Alain's told me all about you."

"If you could only hear him talk about you," she said, smiling at Alain with a sidelong glance.

Again, I was surprised. Alain talked about me? Anything he'd said up until about three days ago would have made her hate me, I was sure of that. "Well, I beg you, don't let anything he has said about me color your judgment."

"Nonsense, Cécile, he's only ever praised you!" she replied, then stopped herself. "I hope it is all right that I call you Cécile," she added quickly.

"Of course," I assured her. "I can tell we're going to be great friends."

Alain looked at me in wonder. Then he put an arm around Florence and guided her onto a bench. She lit up even brighter at his touch.

I said, "How was the journey from town?"

"Oh, it was fine, but it is so hot!" she replied. "_Mon Dieu_! Already the farmers are suffering from the drought. It simply _must_ rain soon."

"Let me get you something to drink," I offered.

"No, no, thank you," she said. "Anyway, I found these lilacs in the forest, I just had to pick them for Monsieur Pierpont. It is so hard to find flowers in this weather!" Always smiling, Florence took her basket toward Papa's room. She even liked flowers. How was it that this girl was exactly who I thought she would be?

"Don't say anything, Cécile," Alain said pointedly when she was out of the room. We heard her give Maman a cheerful "_Bonjour!_"

"Alain, what makes you think I would have anything to say?" I said.

"Because I know you," he replied, smirking.

I could not deny that he was right—the Cécile he knew would certainly have a smart remark to make about such a kind, unpretentious, and charming girl. But Florence was so sweet that I couldn't have found anything negative to say if I had tried. "Why, how dare you," I said, pretending to be offended.

* * *

I had met Florence a few more times before Alain asked me what I thought of her. I didn't have to think twice; my opinion of her had not changed, not since the moment she walked through the cottage door. "She's an angel, Alain, it's impossible not to love her," I told him sincerely.

Alain looked past me, toward Papa's room, where we could hear Florence chatting happily. I was troubled not to see a certain look cross his features, an expression of complete happiness and selfless adoration.

"Don't you agree?" I said quietly, not asking so much as stating what I hoped was a fact.

He looked back at me with those clear blue eyes. Now _there_ was a look I knew—one that betrayed that I had stumbled on the truth.

"You _do_ love her, don't you, Alain?" I made myself ask, not wanting to hear the answer.

"How could I not," he said, looking at his palms.

I was almost angry at his response. Here he went again. "Look at her, Alain," I said more forcefully, nodding toward Papa's room, where we could see Florence laughing. "Don't you see her glowing that way? She loves you, can't you see that?"

"Stop it, Cécile," he said crossly.

"No, Alain, I'm not going to stop. How could you do this to her if you don't love her?"

"Well it's not that I don't!" he said loudly, then quieted himself immediately, lest Florence should hear.

"It's not that you don't," I repeated. "What does that mean?"

He said nothing.

I nearly rolled my eyes at him. "Alain, can't you see that she's perfect—"

"I know she's perfect, damn it!" he said, fists clenched, trying to keep his voice down. "But—"

"But nothing," I said simply but firmly. "She loves you. _Loves_ you_. _With all her heart."

"You don't understand," he said, shaking his head in agitation. "But how can you, I don't understand it myself. It's just that I—oh, I don't know what to think anymore." He hung his head.

After a moment's silence, he said, "What you said, that day you left the palace. Do you—would you—" He broke off.

"I would say exactly the same thing now, Alain," I said slowly, looking for his eyes.

"You would say the same thing now," he repeated at a murmur, not looking up. Then he stood up and left the cottage.

"Where has Alain got to now?" Florence asked good-naturedly a few minutes later.

"Oh, I think he just wanted some fresh air, that's all," I said lightly.

"In this heat? What is that boy thinking of?" she said, smiling. "He really can be quite odd sometimes!"

I laughed. "Yes, he can. But you know, he really does admire you." I felt a little guilty saying it, if it wasn't exactly the truth, but perhaps some extra affection from Florence would sway Alain?

She blushed and smiled.

* * *

Alain and Florence visited often, usually every day. When they were at the cottage, everything was well. Florence, especially, was a great blessing. She knew how to make Papa laugh and did so as often as possible. She was open and kind and we were thrilled to have a cheery face in the house. Alain didn't mention our conversation and was full of a new enthusiasm for everything Florence had to say. It filled me with a happiness I hadn't known in some time.

In some respects I wished things would never change. I was still worried about Étienne, especially when Alain and Florence weren't around to distract my attention. But for the most part the cottage seemed to be another world. I didn't have to think about embroidery or my complexion or the harp.

But I could, and did, think about Alexandre. He had been so kind to me these past weeks. I was ashamed of my behavior toward him before. What could have been so terrible that I could have treated him with such disrespect? I couldn't even remember. All he had ever been was courteous and attentive. Perhaps a bit _too_ attentive, but was that really a flaw? I had been overwhelmed by my new surroundings, and I had judged him too soon. When Father had asked a friend to stay over for a few weeks, I had jumped to the conclusion that he was trying to set me up with him. I had been biased against Alexandre, predisposed to dislike him. I had no doubt that if I had given him a chance, I would have liked him. Alexandre was a true friend, kind and supportive, and had proved it when I had needed him most. When Papa was better and I went back to the manor, I told myself, I would start over with Alexandre. I would try truly to return the friendship he had given me.

In addition to Alain and Florence, the doctor checked in every few days as well. It pained us to hear that Papa's situation was not improving, and we were determined to reverse the verdict.

"Come, Papa, you must eat this," I said one day after I had been at the cottage for a few weeks, holding out a spoonful of stew for him.

"_J'en ai marre_," he grumbled. "I eat it three meals a day."

"Your health is in the condition it is and you're complaining about being sick of Maman's stew?" I teased.

"You would too if it was all you ate," he replied.

"Perhaps you're right," I said. "But it is good for you. Please eat some, Papa."

He gave a loud, dry cough. "Well, perhaps just a little bit then," he said grudgingly.

I smiled. "There now, doesn't that feel better on your throat," I said. "Really, it's doing you worlds of good."

But I don't think either of us believed what I said.

It was difficult taking care of Papa. We knew he was very sick, and we knew there was nothing we could do about it. If only there were some special mixture, some miraculous remedy I could give him. Or perhaps there was some gifted physician somewhere who knew Papa's condition and had a cure for it.

Then it dawned on me—Étienne's doctor! Why had I not thought of him before? He was the best doctor I had ever heard of. He had nursed me back to health when it seemed unlikely that I would be able to recover from my illness. I wondered whether Étienne would allow me to… No, that was silly. Étienne was only just convalescing himself, he had great need of his doctor.

My thoughts lingered on Étienne. Even though I went to church and considered myself religious, I had never been exceedingly pious. But I prayed often now. If Étienne didn't recover, I didn't know what I would do. I missed his friendship very much. Although I wasn't sure if we were exactly friends anymore—the last time we had met there had been quite a shouting match. And we had said such awful things to each other. I felt my face heat up; the memory brought bitter tears to my eyes even now. It appalled me that he had dared say such things to anyone, much less a lady.

No, I wouldn't go to him begging for his help. And I wouldn't accept the courtesy even if he offered. Well, I probably would. But only for Papa's sake.

Then another thought occurred to me. It wasn't as though Étienne _owned _his physician. What was to prevent me from enlisting the doctor's aid? Surely if I asked him, if I had the funds to pay him, he would come. I could ask Father for the money, I had no doubt that he would understand. I was suddenly filled with new hope.

* * *

"I'm afraid there's not much I can do, mademoiselle," the doctor said quietly to me after examining Papa. "Here is some tonic, perhaps it will ease a bit of the pain. But the problem is an internal one. I wouldn't expect that…that he has much time. I'm so sorry."

I nodded, blinking back tears. I had feared, yet somehow expected, that he would say this. Maman was in town—I would have to relay the message to her later.

He put a wrinkled hand over mine comfortingly. "He has had a long life. He deserves the peace he will find with God."

I said nothing.

"And I hope you are well?" he said starting to pack up his bag. "No relapses?"

"No, no, I am quite well," I assured him. I asked delicately, "And…how does the prince fare?"

"I'm afraid I can't say that, miss," he said.

"You can't say, or you won't say?" I asked before I could stop myself.

"Well, strictly speaking, I'm not permitted to say."

He looked at me for a moment, then smiled. "He is not fully recovered," he said, "but his condition improves."

"_Dieu soit loué_," I said.

"And forget I've said anything," he said softly, wagging a finger at me playfully. "I only tell you because I know how, er, how well the prince thinks of you."

I would have corrected him, but it didn't seem necessary.

"I shall tell him you asked after him," he said.

"Oh—please don't," I replied.

The physician looked puzzled, then seemed to comprehend. "Very well," he nodded.

"_Merci beaucoup_," I told him as he stood to leave. "We are very much in your debt." I handed him a small purse.

He thanked me in turn. "And I am terribly sorry there was nothing more I could do."

He rode off and I let out a long, slow, despondent sigh.

* * *

"Cécile," Maman said softly to me in the dark.

My eyes opened at once. No, not now, I thought. Papa couldn't be—

"Your papa wants to speak to you."

I breathed in shakily.

Maman put a hand on my arm. "Cécile?"

"Yes," I said, trying to sound firm and secure. I stood up and went to Papa.

I watched him for a moment in the dim candlelight before entering the room. He was breathing hard.

"Cécile?" Papa rasped.

I swallowed hard. "Yes, Papa, I'm here," I said hollowly.

"Sit down," he said.

I sat.

He looked me deep in the eyes, though he didn't need to. He could undoubtedly see the complete and utter despair on my face. He spoke in a soft, somewhat gravelly voice. "Don't worry, child. It's my time."

My eyes filled with tears, angry tears. I couldn't believe Papa was using that ridiculous expression. "Your time?" I echoed. "How can you say that?"

He coughed loudly. "Oh, I can just feel it," he said lightly a moment later. Then he gave a soft chuckle. "I wish I could think of something profound to say to you, great men always have some bit of wisdom to impart on their deathbeds."

"You are a great man, Papa," I choked.

Another coughing fit, longer than the last, interrupted him. He gave himself time to regain his breath, then went on. "No, Cécile. I just knew what I wanted, and I followed it. That's the only way you can make anything happen. I am so proud of the woman you have become, Cécile. But you mustn't take anything for granted. You must take your life in your own hands, you've got to fight for what you want. And believe me, nothing ever comes easily. But if you work hard for what it is that you want, then you'll have earned every bit of it." He paused, looking somewhat pleased. "_Mon Dieu_," he said bemusedly, "I believe I've done it."

I beamed at him, the tears still streaming down my face.

"There, there," he said softly, taking my cold, clammy hand in his.

Then he closed his eyes. It was like a nightmare. Images of Étienne flashed into my head. Blood, darkness, tears, and the sickeningly sweet smell of roses. I wanted to scream at Papa, to cry out that whatever he did, he must keep his eyes open.

"Will you remember what I told you, Cécile?" he said wanly.

A tiny wave of relief washed over me. "Of course, Papa," I said, "of course."

He breathed deeply and smiled, eyes still closed.

We sat in silence for what seemed at once an eternity and the blink of an eye. Then I felt his hand go limp. The tears began to fall again. And then Maman was there, holding me in her arms.


	22. Misery Again

Wow, I love you all. You are so faithful. You can't believe how many "I've been waiting so long for another chapter"s I got. I mean, _I_ can't even believe it. It makes me feel very happy to know that you look forward to reading this. And you were so affected by last chapter's events! It was very touching. Aw, shucks, now I'm getting all emotional.

Oh, by the way, this one took a little while too because there are very important things happening next chapter and there must be no discrepancy. Oooh, aren't you excited!

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Two: Misery Again

Nothing extraordinary happened at Papa's funeral. There was no earthshaking crash of thunder preceding a torrential storm. Neither was there a rainbow, nor a chorus of birds singing sweetly, nor a congregation of friendly woodland creatures in attendance at the ceremony. The wind did not whistle through the leaves in a quiet tribute. A brilliantly-colored butterfly did not land on my shoulder to console me. There was no sign, from Papa or elsewhere.

No, it was just as hot and dry as ever. We stood in the sweltering heat, the sun beating down on our backs, listening to a dull sermon made by a man who had never even knownPapa. Alain, and Florence were there, and some of the villagers who had known Papa, seen him in town every once in awhile, perhaps visited the cottage a few times. Even some of Papa's old friends from the palace had come to pay their respects, fellow servants who had been fond of him—butlers, stablehands, gardeners, and coachmen. It would have been nice to see them after so long, but the circumstances made it difficult. I could think of little else besides Papa.

The service was painfully long, and I felt guilty thinking it, but I wished I didn't have to be there. I was selfishly concerned with my earthly woes: the sun was blistering and black was not a color for keeping cool. Besides, I could mourn him better in a place like the forest, not a cemetery. I felt a little better about my secret desire to escape knowing that Papa wouldn't have stood for the lengthy ceremony. He would have made jokes to me under his breath to pass the time. He would certainly have had something funny to say about the cleric's oily appearance and pompous tone.

But he wasn't here anymore. He couldn't speak to me; I would never hear his voice again. I loved him with all my heart, and life wasn't the same anymore, worse even than being at the castle for a whole year without seeing him, because even then I knew he was waiting, somewhere, to see me. But now, he was more than just a day's ride away. He was gone.

I stayed only a few days more at the cottage, keeping Maman company. I made sure to keep her busy with tasks and chatter, and I was grateful for the company of Florence and Alain, for Maman's sake. She and Papa had been lifelong companions. I knew she felt his loss more acutely than anyone, that even all the pain I was suffering must have been nothing to hers. I found her crying quietly a few times. Her sorrow convinced me that I had to be strong for both of us. I kept everything I felt inside, I didn't cry. There was a huge, gaping emptiness in me but I took pains to seem cheerful for Maman.

Father came for me soon after the funeral. Maman had sent him a letter, he knew what had happened. We rode slowly home, the horses going only at a walk, or sometimes a jarring trot.

Father and Alexandre were very kind to me once we returned to the manor. They talked when I wanted to talk and let me sit in silence when I didn't.

It was very quiet around the manor for a few days.

Most of the time, I simply thought. I thought about the things Papa and I had done. Like how when I was about six, before we had moved to the palace, he had helped me make a hut out of branches and leaves in the woods. I had played in it for days and he, of course, had been a frequent visitor. I remembered the time when our horse Félix ran away and Papa helped me look for him late into the night, then carried me home when I got too tired to search anymore. He loved books the same way I did; once he had let me stay home to finish a particularly exciting book, instead of making me go to work in the kitchens. He told everyone, even Maman, that I had a headache, just so that I could read the end of the suspenseful story. He never told anyone, said it could be private, just between us. He was good at making things seem like our special secret. And then there was the time only a little more than a year ago, when he had read into my heart, had understood without my telling him, that Alain was not the right one for me. The bond between us had truly been a unique one. I was no longer a servant, but nor was I a true noble. Alain and Étienne had proven both to me—to one I was a snob, and to the other I was an imposter. It was only with Papa that it didn't matter who or what I was.

But I didn't speak to Father or Alexandre about Papa. They wouldn't have really understood, though this wasn't of any fault of their own. No, the reason they couldn't truly comprehend was because it would be impossible for me to capture Papa, his spirit and wit and heart, in mere words. Father had met him but once or twice, and Alexandre never. They could console me, but they wouldn't see the depth of my grief. And frankly, I didn't want their sympathy. I greatly preferred the solitude of my own thoughts.

I did little for two or three days, and spoke even less. Some reading, a few seconds of needlework, a bit of riding, a great deal of staring into space. I spent much of my time in the garden, under the shade of a cherry tree whose fruit was now gone. In fact, it was in the garden that I received a visitor a few days after returning to the manor.

I was trying to read when Lucie opened the door from the house, eyes wide as if she was trying to tell me something. She ushered out a person I did not expect.

"Your highness," I said, taken by surprise. I was glad to see that he was well enough to make the journey to our manor (although he did look a little pale), but at the same time I felt a lead ball form in my stomach. This was going to be a difficult visit. I looked into his face and thought of his words. _You will never be able to escape the fact that you're no more than a common servant._

But still, I had to be gracious, even though all I wanted was to be alone. "Please, sit," I said quietly, not meeting his eyes. _Grace, admiration, dignity; they have no weight in gold._

Étienne took a seat on the cool stone bench next to me, but said nothing for a moment, as though he were choosing his words carefully. He took his hat off and fiddled with the brim.

I didn't have the patience to deal with him just now, didn't have the composure it took to have a civilized conversation with him. Well, I thought, if he wasn't going to say anything, perhaps I could make him leave. "Your highness, I'm afraid it's not the best time," I said cautiously.

"Please, let me speak," he said. "I came—I came to thank you. The doctors said that if you had not stopped my wound with your handkerchief, I would be dead." He spoke the words slowly and simply, though completely aware of their meaning.

I didn't know how to reply, so I was silent, thinking that perhaps he would continue. But he didn't. And, truth be told, it didn't surprise me that he didn't have anything else to say. He had no apology to make about his behavior at the ball, because in his mind he had done no wrong. Or perhaps he had already atoned for whatever wrong he had done to me earlier that evening by his stabbed. If anything, he was probably still somewhat angry with me.

It was incredible, I thought, how in my mind, I had completely idealized him. I had put him high on a pedestal as a generous, loving, ill-fated soul who had had a terrible tragedy befall him. Yes, it was horrible that he had been stabbed. And I didn't mean for a moment that he had deserved it. But it had blinded me, had made me forget all the things that about him that made me angry: his pride, his blank lack of feeling, for instance. And I couldn't believe myself.

Finally I spoke. "Are you all right?" I asked, trying to sound kind.

He nodded. "Much improved, thank you," he said.

We sat in an uncomfortable silence for a minute or two. I looked around the garden, but it wouldn't give me any hints as to what to say to him. The weather? No, the heat was unbearable and it was making the kingdom suffer. His health? No, he had already said all he wanted to on that particular subject. I bit my lower lip.

But why wasn't hesaying anything? He was the one who had come to see _me_. If he didn't have any reason to be here, couldn't he leave me in peace?

Maman came into my head. She would have scolded me for being so rude. But Papa would have understood. He knew that sometimes you simply needed to be alone.

Papa. I missed him so dearly.

The prince looked at me suddenly. "And are you all right, mademoiselle?" he said with a frown.

My expression had involuntarily turned to one of dismay at the very thought of Papa, and the prince had noticed. He looked at me intently.

For some reason tears welled up in my eyes at his gaze. I hadn't cried about Papa yet. I wasn't about to in his company. "Oh, yes, quite all right," I said as lightly as I could manage.

"You are not. What's wrong, what's happened?"

"_J'ai sommeil, _I am tired, that is all," I said with a shaky sigh. I blinked back tears and attempted a weary smile. "I returned yesterday from Mam—I mean, the Pierponts' cottage, and I'm afraid the journey wore me out." I looked away. If I was going to cry, I would rather he didn't see me do it.

"I hope all is well there?" he pressed, but he wasn't prying. He spoke softly, he was asking it for my sake.

I nodded, still not looking at him. I knew that if I spoke, the tears would come pouring out. So I stayed silent. But they came anyway, and as much as I tried to disguise them, I could not.

"Good God, what has happened?" Étienne said, looking genuinely alarmed.

"P-Papa," I said through unladylike sobs. I threw my hands up to my face. I looked a fright already—I had eaten little and not slept in days—and a blotchy, tear-stained face would certainly not help the matter.

"Your father?" He craned his neck, as if to check that Father was still in the drawing room. "But I just spoke with him, whatever is the matter?"

I shook my head, unable to speak.

He looked confused. Then he understood. "Georges?" he asked softly.

I nodded again. "H-he was v-very ill. And he—" I broke off, shaking with sobs.

He was silent for a moment as I was doubled over weeping.

"I'm sorry," he said slowly, wringing his hands. "I know the pain of losing a father." He was stiff and awkward at my crying. And I couldn't blame him. It was inappropriate of me to be bawling this way in front of any man, let alone the prince.

He looked at me kindly, his hand moved slightly as though he wanted to comfort me. But instead, he simply rose and said, "I—I'll leave you alone now."

I stood with him, as it was the proper thing to do, but he waved a hand at me. "No, mademoiselle, you sit here. I hope..." And then, apparently unable to think of anything to hope for, he merely bowed to me and left.

I wiped my face, thoroughly ashamed of my outburst. Then, quite suddenly, a minute or so after he left, I realized that the last thing I wanted was to be alone. I felt scared, my heart was pounding, I couldn't be by myself. I needed Papa. I needed him, and he wasn't there. How could he do this to me?

I needed someone now, anyone. I all but ran into the house, and continued my reading sitting only a little more comfortably next to Father.

It was not ten minutes later that we saw the prince's carriage roll back up to the house. Father went to the door, and I followed him at a short distance. There was a knock at the door and Father opened it, saying in a jolly voice, "Sire, good to have you back so soon!"

"You're back," I said idiotically.

"Yes, I, er, forgot my hat," he said.

I didn't know what I was expecting, but I was disappointed. "Oh, your hat, of course. Lucie, please get the prince's hat."

"No need," a voice said. Alexandre approached, smiling somewhat oddly. "I was taking a walk and saw it in the garden. Here you are." He held it out for Étienne to take.

"_Merci_," Étienne said tersely.

I looked from Alexandre to the prince and back. Each was staring at the other with obvious aversion.

"Well, thank you once again for your hospitality, Count," Étienne said.

"Think nothing of it, your highness," Father said.

"Good day," he said, looking at me. His dark eyes locked on mine for a moment before I looked down and curtseyed. When I looked back up, he was gone.

For some reason, my episode in front of Étienne seemed to have helped me. I was feeling a little better—and Father noticed.

"Cécile, I'm so glad to see you so talkative," he said cheerfully to me the next morning. "I don't believe you said anything more than 'please pass the salt' yesterday and already today you've spoken five times as much."

I looked down at the needlepoint in my hand. "I am feeling better, Father," I said quietly, "though I don't really know why."

He looked pensive for a moment, his mouth slightly open. "_Je me demande_," he wondered aloud, sounding nonchalant, "if the improvement has anything to do with…with Alexandre?"

I was slightly puzzled, but replied, "Why, certainly. You and Alexandre have been both so kind to me. I can barely deserve all the compassion you have shown me."

"Nonsense, I'm your father. But Alexandre, yes, he does…well, he is very good to you. Er, what do you think of him?"

"He is a wonderful friend."

"Is that all? No, that's not what I meant to say. What I meant to say was, Cécile, that…oh, well, Alexandre respects and admires you, very much so. You know his intentions, he declared them before the ball. What would you say if, well, if you two were to become engaged? Do you think you could ever…learn to love him?"

I didn't dare repeat the word. Love Alexandre? "Father, I—I—well—" My voice and expression obviously betrayed my feelings.

"Cécile, oh, daughter, I don't want to pressure you, but—"

I stared in alarm at Father. Surely he wouldn't force me to marry Alexandre? Matrimony was a step I was not ready for, not to Alexandre, not now. In fact I wasn't sure I'd ever be ready for it. For some reason it started my heart beating fast and sent my stomach into somersaults. The idea of marrying him horrified me, though I had no real reason to be so against it.

Father looked at me with what seemed to be pity. "No? I expected as much. But please, will you think about it?" He looked as though he were almost pleading with me.

I neither nodded nor shook my head in response.

He smiled weakly. "Very well, Cécile. I know, your heart is somewhere else."

His words did not calm my fears. Unlike Papa, he did not have that talent. Because he had never had to soothe a crying child who had woken up from a nightmare, had never had to assure a young girl that a bedridden loved one would be well again.

The conversation consumed me for some time. It was only much later that I stopped to wonder what he had meant by his last statement. Was he saying that my heart was simply not in it, or that it was in fact somewhere else, as if I had already given it away?

A messenger came during dinner that night. Father's manservant Bernard brought the letter into the dining room.

I couldn't quite make out the words scribbled on the smooth ivory paper but I saw that there were only a few.

"Oh dear," Father said slowly, still reading. "Oh, _mon Dieu_."

"What is it, Father?" I asked anxiously. I looked to Alexandre. He was cutting his meat politely. Didn't he care what news Father had?

"It's the queen, it's Queen Catherine," he said, as though we could be unsure which queen he meant. "She's…she's passed away."

Something strange happened then. I hadn't even known her, and yet I felt tears welling up in my eyes. My face was getting warm. I blinked rapidly.

"I'm sure she was ill, she's been very delicate all her life," Alexandre said softly.

His words sounded distant. All I could think of was how ironic it was that Étienne had just been here consoling me, and now he was the one who needed consoling.

"I suppose," Father said, folding up the note, "that there will be some sort of ceremony soon."

I must have looked somewhat confused.

"For the prince," Alexandre supplied. "To become king. To be able to rule."

"He's been ruling since his father died," I said with a frown.

"Yes," said Father, "but only because his mother's health has been poor. But he could not formally take the throne until he was twenty-one, and married, because one monarch still lived."

"Married?" I said hollowly.

"The kings of our past knew something about the wisdom of a woman," said Alexandre, looking at me with a smile.

"But now that his mother has passed away, Étienne must be crowned, despite the fact that he does not have a wife."

And sure enough, we received word the next morning that Prince Étienne's coronation would be held the following day, at the church on the castle grounds.

* * *

The end is nigh! It makes me sad but it's the truth. Anyway, if you liked it, show me! That sounded a bit Eliza Doolittle-ish. Really, though. I put a lot of effort into the next couple chapters. So please review. :)


	23. The Revelation Again

It has all been building up to this. _Amusez-vous._

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Revelation Again

"What the devil is going on around here?" Father said angrily. He had been in a state all morning; I attributed it to the recent turn of events—and to the temperature, which was even higher than normal.

Both he and Alexandre were craning their necks out into the bright sunlight in an effort to see why we had been sitting stock-still in a line of carriages for the past quarter of an hour. I sat on the other side, my arm out the window, trying in vain to catch some sort of breeze.

"No doubt it's the guards. Inefficient, incompetent, inept." Father emphasized the first syllable of each word so that his condemnation had a horrible rhythm to it. "This is unacceptable, simply unacceptable," he continued impatiently, and for a moment looked as though he was going to get out of the carriage and speak to someone.

But far more distressing than the heat or the delay to get into the castle were the rows of people lining the road. Poor, dirty, silent, hopeless people. Old, young, men, women, children, people of all kinds. They had not come to beg. They lacked the energy. And besides, they were not beggars. They were farmers, farmers without anything to farm. There hadn't been rain in weeks and the earth was like sand, it was like trying to grow crops in a desert. All they could do was sit in the heat, breathing in the dust the grand carriages before them kicked up, and hope that someone would take pity on them. The absolute silence was eerie.

"Please, miss, please," I thought I heard a small voice say at my elbow. I looked out of our carriage to see a young girl of perhaps about thirteen, her face stained with dirt and tears, her hair of indiscernible color, her hand outstretched. "_Un peu d'argent, s'il vous plaît._"

I glanced at Alexandre and my father. Both were still looking out the other window. I reached quickly into my purse and gave the girl a few coins, smiling reassuringly at her.

"_Merci_," she whispered, and ran to another girl to marvel at what I had given her.

When I turned back Alexandre's eyes were on my own—he had seen what I had done. For a moment I thought he was going to scold me for being duped by the girl. But he merely shook his head, eyes cloudy, and said, "Disgraceful what these people have been reduced to. That poor creature."

I was surprised and touched that he felt so deeply for the girl. You _did_ misjudge him, a voice said. And for once, I agreed with it.

We were let out at the main entrance to the castle and followed groups of well-dressed aristocrats toward the church. Alexandre ran ahead to meet the duke, and Father and I arrived there some minutes later, sweating even more than before.

The church was small but beautiful, as if it were a miniature replica of a great cathedral. The altar was made of rich wood and framed by organ pipes. The mid-morning light filtering in through the beautiful stained-glass windows threw patterns onto the stone floor. Best of all, it had the quiet, musty coolness that a sanctuary should have.

Father and I took our seats in the fourth or fifth row from the front, next to the aisle. The church was already filling with other nobles. Alexandre, however, would not be sitting with us. Instead, he and his father, the duke, were at the altar; Desmarais men had been involved in the coronation ceremony for many generations. Alexandre bore a pillow on which rested a golden orb and a scepter. The duke was responsible for holding the sword that represented the monarch's power and his duty to uphold justice.

It was the first time I had seen Alexandre's father. The duke was a sturdy man, not tall, but not short either. He had a clean face and an icy gaze, and seemed to sneer at everything around him. He leaned to the side and said something to his son, and as he did, Alexandre's blue eyes fixed on mine in an intense, powerful stare. He looked incredibly handsome; I believe I felt almost lucky that he was looking at me that way. Shyly, I turned away.

The small church had filled up, but there weren't as many people as there had been at either of the balls. Perhaps the suddenness of the occasion had prevented some of them from attending. It probably didn't help that the aristocracy were all landowners whose livelihoods were being endangered by the drought. The guards that were stationed at the door and every so often along the walls, faces covered, underlined the soberness of the occasion. The aged bishop and the two other clergymen at the altar wore solemn expressions as well. And next to me, Father was positively quaking.

What little chatter there was was silenced by a trumpet blast. The heavy wooden doors at the back opened and Étienne strode in. He looked regal, handsome, elegant in a grand military uniform; but I remember thinking he also looked far more somber than any prince should look at his coronation. I searched for eye contact as he passed next to me, but his hard, dark eyes did not look down, only straight ahead. He had a duty—his family's honor, his role as king, they meant everything. His parents were dead, the kingdom was his responsibility now. I admired and cursed his exceptional strength. How was it possible that he was so composed?

Étienne kneeled upon reaching the altar and the bishop began the ceremony. It was not as elaborate a rite as I had imagined. But it was full of history. I could imagine the princes of the past going through the same sacraments. The bishop began with several long prayers blessing Étienne and asking that he should have the wisdom and heart to rule. Then he anointed Étienne with holy water, touching his forehand and hands and reciting further prayers.

The bishop walked slowly to the side of the altar and took the orb and scepter from Alexandre. He returned to his position in front of Étienne and presented the relics first to the icons behind him and then to the congregation.

He said, "Will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the people of your kingdom according to its laws and customs?"

Étienne replied in a level voice, "I solemnly promise it will be done."

"Will you do all in your power to guarantee that the principles of justice and mercy are preserved?" the bishop continued.

"I will."

Then the bishop placed the orb in Étienne's right hand, murmuring a prayer as he did, and repeated the action with the scepter, which he put in Étienne's left hand. The bishop bade him rise and they turned to face the people.

"The things which I have here promised, I will perform," Étienne pronounced.

His stoic expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts, but I could not help beaming. My Étienne, _my _prince, the boy I had served tea, the man he had been forced to become; he was being crowned. The pride I felt was overwhelming. The ceremony was not over yet, though, and he would not formally be king until it was.

Étienne was led around the altar to pay homage to the various saints and religious figures, then back to the front, where he knelt once more.

The bishop then turned to take hold of the ancient crown that lay on a pedestal to his left. The crown was not at all ornate, but beautiful in its simplicity. There were no gemstones, velvet, or fur. It was an unadorned golden ring, the top trimmed by fleurs-de-lis.

We couldn't see the ritual he performed with the crown next because his back was to us. But when he turned we could all sense that this was the climax, that this moment was _the _moment.

My breath caught in my throat as the bishop turned and said, "I now present to you Étienne. Do you solemnly affirm that he is worthy and capable of the responsibilities of a monarch?"

It was our cue; we answered in a single voice, with a resounding, "_Vive _Étienne!"

The bishop's pale white hands were in midair, the crown poised to take its rightful place on Étienne's head, when a voice interrupted him. He froze.

"I'm afraid I _don't _affirm that he is worthy and capable of the responsibilities of a monarch," the duke said loudly, stepping forward. The sword he had been holding in both hands like one in a display case changed position—he now brandished it as a twisted sort of pointer, as though he were about to teach us all a lesson. "Get out of the way, old man." He shoved the elderly bishop to the other side of the altar, where he was caught by two bewildered clerics. People throughout the rows glanced at each other, asking in soft, urgent voices what was going on.

"_Mesdames et messieurs_," the duke began warmly, "_bon matin et bienvenue_. Good morning and welcome. Now, you all think that you have come here today to witness the crowning of this boy." He gestured at Étienne, who had stood up. "But in fact, you could not be more wrong."

Whispers snaked throughout the rows.

"What is that supposed to mean, Desmarais?" Étienne said, with quiet loathing.

"It means, dear prince, that you are not going to be king," the duke said, smiling broadly.

We all looked at him for a moment as he grinned, unsure of what would happen next. Then he snapped his fingers and several guards moved in from the walls to grab Étienne. They did not have an easy time of it; the prince did not intend to succumb to the men. But after wrestling with him for a time, the guards held him down on his knees in front of the duke. No one dared speak a word, we were all terrified.

"I daresay you'll be quiet now?" the duke said.

Étienne was silent, jaw clenched.

The duke moved to patted his cheek, and Étienne jerked his head away. "Well, good enough."

Étienne said something in a voice so low that I doubt anyone but the duke heard it. It was evidently insulting, though, because the duke's cheeks reddened and he muttered to the guards, "Shut him up."

It broke my heart to see them hurt him—his arms held back, he was given blow after blow, in the stomach, the face, anywhere. I clutched Father's arm, bit my lips to keep from crying out. When it stopped a few moments later the corner of his mouth was slowly trickling blood, his hair was disheveled, and his eyes were blazing dangerously in the duke's direction.

The duke began to circle him, as a vulture would. "Do you people genuinely believe," he began in a loud, cruel, incredulous voice, "that such an idiotic boy, such a spoiled brat, can lead our great land? Does he _deserve_ to be crowned to the highest honor in the kingdom?" He paused, eyes never leaving Étienne. "No," he said quietly after a moment. "No. You don't deserve to be king."

Étienne spat at his feet. At this insolence, Alexandre seemed unable to restrain himself. He dealt the prince a blow straight to the stomach.

"You try my patience, boy!" the duke snarled. "Bring it to me!"

One of the guards, obviously employed by the duke rather than the castle as we thought earlier, handed him a small hoop of metal, which he promptly threw into the fire of a ceremonial torch next to him.

"This is a clever little trick I learned from the Hungarians," the duke said with a crazed smile. "I thought it very fitting. Now, to do the thing properly, I ought to have heated a throne and a scepter as well, but unfortunately I just don't have the time. But I think this will get the message across well enough, don't you, Étienne? We'll just give it a moment or two."

My heart beat fast. Surely he wasn't going to put it on Étienne's head? I felt dizzy, the room was spinning.

Father gave me a worried sidelong glance and squeezed my hand.

"Father, please, do something, I can't bear it!" I whispered to him, nearly about to collapse.

He looked up to the duke, then anxiously back at me. He stood up and said loudly, heroically, "Émile, stop! You can't do this!"

The duke answered him with mock surprise. "Why, André, whatever can you mean?" he said, grinning maliciously. "You, of all people, my partner, nay, my sponsor!'

I was stunned. The admiration and love I had felt for Father just a moment ago as he stood up to defend Étienne turned to disgust and horror as he said meekly, "But this wasn't part of the plan."

I looked to the Duke, to Alexandre, to Étienne, then back to Father. And I backed away from him, up the aisle. All I knew was that I had to get out, I had to get away.

The duke laughed softly at me. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry, dear, that I had to be the one to tell you about your father being involved in all this nasty business. But if it's any comfort, he did try to duck out of it, the weakling."

My father hung his head in shame, offering me no explanation or justification.

And then, right then, that moment, everything clicked into place. Étienne was the "he" Father and Alexandre had been speaking of that night at the inn, _they _had tried to kill him at the ball. The duke had been orchestrating the entire thing and Father had been a pawn in his hands. Everything added up, their behavior, the late-night meetings, the private words I had overheard. They had probably killed the queen too, to precipitate the coronation ceremony. How had I not seen it?

Revulsion, hatred; these words didn't begin to cover what I felt. My own father, a traitor. I wanted to run away, to never have to see him again. And as if Étienne didn't have reason enough to hate me, I had now given him another. My father had tried to kill him. My _father_. And I hadn't done a thing to stop him. I felt so naïve, I had been so easily taken in How could I have been so stupid?

"I'd say she deserves to know the whole story, André, don't you?" the duke inquired. "It's only fair."

Father said nothing, and as I was still in shock, the duke continued.

"Well, let's start at the beginning, shall we? A few months ago, I decided that this boy was no better a ruler than my horse could be. And I am quite fond of my horse, but the fact is, he would make a positively dreadful king."

His humor was not appreciated, which didn't please him. He resumed.

"Anyway, at the time, I was in a bit of a rough spot. I still am, as a matter of fact, but that will change. In order to fund my plans, I needed someone with plenty of money but not enough brains to fully grasp the situation. Your father, Mademoiselle, was the answer to my prayers. But he wouldn't get involved unless he knew there was something in it for him. I promised him power, land, money, the usual—once I was king. But he thought I would betray him, which actually shows some foresight. Naturally I would betray him."

The duke peered at Father, feigning pity.

"So he demanded that I marry my own son to his daughter. I didn't even know he had a daughter, but here you are. He was convinced that this union would make it somehow impossible for me to keep the spoils all to myself. Of course, then he began to feel guilty that he had used an innocent girl," the duke said with a roll of his eyes, "so he came to me saying that his poor daughter didn't _love_ Alexandre, that she loved another, and he begged me to call off the whole plan. But I assuaged his fears by promising that I wouldn't hurt the prince, just have a nice bloodless coup and banish him to another continent."

I had barely heard most of the duke's account. All I could think of was Father and what he had done to me, to Étienne. "So this is why you suddenly remembered you had a daughter?" I said to him in a low voice that got louder as I went on. "This is why? So that you could use to me to have more influence in the kingdom? So that I could be a part of your despicable plan?" My chest was heaving and I was practically shouting. But Father wouldn't say anything.

"Relax, Cécile," Alexandre said, the first words he'd spoken through the whole ordeal.

I stared at Alexandre, handsome, charming, perfect Alexandre. He appeared almost bored. He made me sick.

"I don't want anything to do with you, you…you traitors," I said, and stormed back up the aisle.

I hadn't gotten more than halfway, though, when the duke said, "Mademoiselle Levesque, there's no point in being so irrational, and besides, the doors are all locked anyway. Your father is a scoundrel, that much is true. He wanted the loot without getting his hands dirty. He's an idiot, a coward, nothing more than a—"

"Shut your mouth!" Étienne yelled suddenly.

I spun around and looked at him in shock. What was he saying?

"Apparently they didn't hit you hard enough," the duke growled, and went over and hit the prince himself.

And suddenly, as Étienne was once again suffering, and once again on _my_ account, I realized something. Something that Father had obviously known for some time. Something so simple, so obvious. I loved Étienne. I didn't know for how long I had, but it didn't matter. I loved him.

And before I knew what I was doing, I was up at the altar, trying to pull the duke off of Étienne. And then I was on the ground, my cheek throbbing. Then Father ran up and he too was knocked to the floor.

I was seized by a pair of strong arms. I struggled to get out, I wanted to go to Étienne. "Just be quiet, Cécile," the voice belonging to them hissed in my ear, and I was too dazed to question.

Father stood up slowly, unsteadily. "Émile," he called.

The duke turned. "Good God, man," he said. "What are you doing?"

"I must do what I know to be right," Father said.

"Even if it kills you?" the duke replied tauntingly. He pulled a knife out of his breast pocket and hurled it so fast that no one saw its path, only its destination. Several women screamed. Father was killed instantly. I wanted nothing more than to hurt the duke as much as I could but the man holding me only tightened his grip and told me to stop writhing about.

The duke Desmarais turned his attention back to Étienne. "Now then. What to do with you? I suppose you want to be crowned. So certainly I'll crown you."

A guard handed him a pair of heavy metal tongs like those a blacksmith would use and he pulled his iron crown out of the fire. It was white-hot and I felt tears come to my eyes. He had to stop, he had to.

"Ready to give up the throne, boy?"

Étienne said nothing.

"Either you give it up or we take it from you," the duke said. "Why don't you let us do this the easy way?"

I willed him to talk, to submit. _You can go free! _I screamed at him in my head. _Don't you see they'll only hurt you more if you don't give in to them!_ And I couldn't bear to see him hurt again.

I saw the muscles flexing in Étienne's jaw as he clenched it with characteristic stubbornness.

"Very well," said the duke. The tongs hovered over Étienne's head. The duke's crown was so close I felt sure the iron was burning his hair. I shut my eyes as tight as I could, praying that somehow none of this had really happened, that I was having the worst nightmare I'd ever had.

Then there was a large clatter and the man holding me let go. My eyes shot open. In a flash the guards had released Étienne. It took no more than a space of a few seconds for Alexandre and his father to be pinned down.

Chatter bubbled through the room. What had just happened?

Étienne stared at the two conspirators with a hatred I've never seen equaled by anyone, first the duke and then Alexandre. He seemed to want dearly to repay the favor Alexandre had done him, I could practically see his thoughts working. He weighed it for a moment, then appeared to think better of it and walked a few steps away. A second later he gave in to the desire and hit him squarely in the jaw, leaving Alexandre doubled over with pain.

Étienne's eyes met mine. They gave nothing away. What was he thinking now? I so dearly wished to know.

I wanted to smile at him, to tell him how happy I was, to cry out that I loved him. But I couldn't do it. My mouth wouldn't connect with my brain, I stood with my gaze locked on his and couldn't do a thing.

Then he turned back to his prisoners. "Get them out of my sight," he spat at the guards restraining them.

The bishop stood up, as shaky as a child. He tottered over to the prince and resumed the ceremony where he had left off.

It took only a moment for the kingdom to have a rightful king again.

"_Vive le roi!_" the congregation called. There was whistling and cheering. I wondered that anyone could be so rational at a moment such as this to be merry; I was too overcome with emotion even to speak.

I loved him more than ever.

* * *

So there it is. The climax. But it ain't over 'til it's over—and let me assure you, there is still a bit more to come.

Something I'd like to add, dear readers, is that I so wish I could take credit for thinking of that burning crown thing, it is so deliciously evil. But unfortunately I can't. And the reason for that is that _it actually happened_.

_Twice_.

The first time to some Scottish lord. But the better tale (or more gruesome, at least) concerns a Hungarian cavalry officer who led a rebellion against an oppressive regime. As punishment he was forced to sit on a red-hot throne, wear a red-hot crown, and hold a red-hot scepter. As if all that weren't enough, afterward, still half-alive, he was eaten by his fellow revolutionaries who had been starved for a week in preparation for the occasion. History can be quite sickening.

Anyway, you know what you have to do. Please review! Tell me what you thought of the chapter.


	24. Roses Again

Do you believe this is the last one? ...Me neither.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Four: Roses Again

The ceremony had been over for ten minutes and the church was nearly empty, but I hadn't moved. I was still taking it all in.

"Cécile."

I turned my head expectantly. Was it Étienne?

I was surprised to see Alain standing before me. And once again, I had an epiphany. "It was you," I said. "You and your men, you were the guards. You saved his life. You saved the kingdom."

"Didn't I tell you I would do anything to ensure your happiness?" Alain smiled.

I gave him a watery smile and he embraced me. He was still a complete angel.

"But how did you manage it?" I said. "I thought you were only…well, only bandits."

He explained, "The duke originally hired someone else, but I heard about it and said I had…a special interest in the event. The other man was only too glad to give up such a dangerous undertaking." A pause. "Especially once I bribed him." He grinned his boyish grin.

"Does Florence know you're here?"

He nodded.

"She knows you're a thief?" I said with surprise.

"We may be thieves, Cécile, but we are doing some good."

I looked quizzically at him.

"This drought has been painful. There are far too many people in this kingdom who can't afford a loaf of bread. I know you noticed them along the road this morning." He looked down. "Nobody deserves that."

I stared at him, in awe of his selflessness. He was risking arrest to help people he didn't even know.

He looked back up at me and chuckled at my expression. "So, yes, burglary is still illegal, and yes, Florence knows I am a thief. But she's proud of what I do. And I am, too." He spoke softly, smiling at me.

I hugged him again. He knew I was proud as well.

"Why are you still here?" he whispered to me.

I pulled out of his grip to look at his clear blue eyes.

He kissed my forehead. "_Va!_" he commanded, feigning viciousness. So I went.

* * *

I found Étienne in the gardens. I wondered what had made him go back to the roses. And I wondered what had made me check there first.

I took in the flowers' sticky-sweet smell, intensified by the heat. It took me back to the ball, to those terrifying moments when Étienne and I were alone there again—but under much different circumstances.

I hung back where he couldn't see me and just watched him for a few moments. I didn't want to approach him, I was scared to. What had I done to deserve to speak to him?

He was pacing violently around the gazebo. He stopped every now and then, once to loosen his cravat, once to rest his head on a pillar for a moment, and finally to sit down, head in his hands.

Now, Cécile, go!

But I couldn't do it. My father and my betrothed had staged a revolt and had nearly killed him on several occasions. And I had blindly let them do it, despite any suspicions I had. How could I have been so stupid? Who _else _could they have wanted to hurt but the sole heir to the throne? I knew I would never stop blaming myself. And would Étienne ever stop blaming me? Surely he held me partly responsible, how could he not? But I loved him, and even that wouldn't change my feelings. But I supposed I would never tell him.

Words came to me then, wise words from the wisest man I have ever known.

_You must take your life in your own hands, you've got to fight for what you want. If you work hard for what it is that you want, then you'll have earned every bit of it._

I had been wrong, Papa did speak to me again. I looked up to the sky. It had clouded over. I knew Papa was up there somewhere, guiding me. I thanked him and took a deep breath and stepped out where Étienne could see me.

He turned immediately. "What do you want?" he said.

"I—I—" I cursed myself. Why couldn't I explain myself?

"Come to finish your father's work?" he said in a mocking voice.

"No, I—"

"Really, I don't know why I ever doubted you were that traitor's daughter. You look just like him. And act just like him, too."

"Please, stop—"

"I may have owed you my life, mademoiselle, but I think I've paid that debt. I don't owe you anything else."

He was right, he was absolutely right. I stopped protesting. What could I possibly say?

"I should have known they would use you to get to me," he continued.

He didn't love me. He hated me, and he was right to. Papa's advice had failed me. I was ashamed. I turned around to leave.

"Cécile, wait," Étienne said in a different voice. He got up, he caught my hand and pulled me around so that I was facing him.

We stared at each other. He didn't let go of my hand. I didn't want him to, not then, not ever.

"I—I don't know why I said those things," Étienne said steadily, not taking his eyes off mine. "I don't believe any of them."

I said nothing but my heart was pounding.

"The truth is," he began slowly, "that when I came to thank you, that was not all I wished to say. But you weren't well, I wasn't going to trouble you with it." He sighed and looked skyward, running a hand through his hair, the other still holding mine. "I'm sorry, about everything I said at the ball. I was angry, angry that you left the castle without telling me, and angry that you had been at the masquerade without telling me. And I saw you with Desmarais. I was—I was jealous."

"You know him?" I said softly, knowing how vulnerable he felt at this moment.

"We grew up together. Only young aristocrats are suitable playmates for princes," he replied with a crooked smile.

"Not maids?" I asked playfully.

He rubbed the back of his neck, grinning. "No, I'm afraid not." He looked at me, blushing a little, and continued more briskly. "Anyway, I thought—well, I thought you must have changed, that you were now the sort of girl who Desmarais—"

"Alexandre Desmarais," I interrupted him, "is the most pompous, arrogant ass I have ever met."

He laughed aloud. "Something tells me ladies shouldn't use such language."

"Hang being a lady," I said. "I hate these stupid gowns, I can't stand needlework, and I absolutely detest riding sidesaddle."

Étienne grinned again. "You preferred being a maid, then?"

"It was so much simpler," I replied. But as soon as I spoke the words, I was no longer sure that that was in fact why I had preferred being a maid. Certainly as a maid I hadn't had to worry about being away from Maman and Papa, trying to please Father, being courted by Alexandre, and, of course, overhearing assassination plots. No, those _were _reasons, but not the _only _reasons. I had loved the castle, too. I had loved being near Étienne. All that time, I must have been in love with him, without ever knowing it. And I could have lost him.

"I'm sorry, too," I said.

He frowned at me. "For what?"

"I was so blind, I heard Father and Alexandre talking, I knew something was going on, it was so obvious, but I never understood—" I looked away in distress.

"I don't care," he declared, which struck me as an odd thing to say.

"But they stabbed you," I said incredulously. "And they tortured you today, and nearly killed you, and oh, I could have prevented the whole thing, if I had only—"

He cut me off. "I wouldn't change what has happened in the past few months, not for anything. Not even to get rid of this." He pulled back the collar of his shirt to reveal an angry scar, a fierce red in places and perfectly white in others, coursing down his chest, under his shoulder.

I gave a slight gasp.

"It—it doesn't hurt much anymore," he assured me.

I gently lifted a hand to touch it then realized the impropriety of the action and recoiled, cheeks flaming.

Tears threatened and I looked down at our clasped hands. "I'm so glad you're safe," I said. I met his eyes again and the intensity of his gaze startled me. His eyes were alive, on fire even.

"Cécile," he said. "I love you, I loved you the first time I saw you, but I never loved you more than I do now."

I felt something fall on my face but my gaze never moved from his eyes. Was this really happening? Only a moment ago I had been convinced he detested me. "And I love you," I said.

He pulled me slowly into a kiss as more raindrops fell around us, lightly at first but quickly getting harder, purifying the air, driving away the oppressive temperature. We were getting wet, but neither of us cared.

We broke apart for a moment. I laughed at our soaked clothes and he pulled me into the gazebo. We sat on the benches, slightly breathless, just looking at each other. Étienne smiled, a full, genuine smile. I couldn't help returning it.

* * *

Few know anymore what really happened at Étienne's coronation ceremony. The story has been told and retold, elaborated upon and embellished to the point that it is now barely recognizable. Some versions make us laugh at their sheer absurdity. Étienne and I, though, will never forget the truth.

The effects of the occasion, however, are no longer felt. The duke was imprisoned for his treason following the ceremony. He was discovered in his cell less than a week later, dead. He had hanged himself. My father, _le comte_ Levesque, is buried next to his beloved Mariette at the manor. It was not hard for me to forgive him. He atoned for his sins through his last act of valor and died a noble death for it. As regards Alexandre, we can only speculate. The last I heard of him he was leading a rather quiet life in Italy. He won't return. We are sure of that much.

Étienne has been ruling our kingdom with a just mind and generous heart for the past seven years. The kingdom has been enjoying a time of great prosperity since he was crowned. He is an excellent leader—as well as an excellent a husband and father. Our little son Henri wants nothing more than to be as good a king as his papa.

As for me, I couldn't be more content with my life and my family. For, truly, we lived happily ever after.

* * *

Everything clear now? Hope so.

I'm sad. So horribly sad. Console me. And one final plea: review!


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